Two Captains
by Tulio and Miguel
Summary: After being stripped of her title and thrown off of her own ship, Captain Ryenne Caelar makes one huge mistake: getting on the wrong side of Captain Jack Sparrow. And now, she finds she needs his help more than ever. Complete - now with alternate ending.
1. Tortuga

The sun was shining on the sea, the waves breaking into cascades of blueish-green sparkles. The port of Tortuga was in its usual element: utter chaos. Sailors, long at sea, rejoiced to finally return to their second home, to their lovers, to heaven on earth. No one noticed the bedraggled figure - soaked through and through - staggering up the beach and cursing under her breath.  
  
"Bloody pirates.." in her right hand, she gripped a rather worn- looking overcoat and tri-cornered hat - both also quite drenched. It was obvious she'd taken a swim in the recent past; a very long swim.  
  
Glancing at the goings-on around her, she wrinkled her nose in disgust: this was the kind of place that took a bit of getting used to. She hoped she wouldn't have to, however. Searching out the most reasonable- looking person she could find, she settled on a man tying a fishing boat to the dock.  
  
"Oy, mate!" she called, stumbling over to him. "Where can I find the nearest lodging?"  
  
The fisherman never looked up from his work. "Lee's Tavern. Just up the road there." He pointed at a random street, and she stuffed her hat onto her head.  
  
"My thanks to you, good sir." The fisherman merely grunted in reply.  
  
Stepping around a drunken sailor and his girl, who were so lip-locked that they didn't notice her, she started down the narrow alleyway that served as a street, marveling at how a single port town could be so disorganized, and yet, so famed. She'd heard many a story of the grandeur of Tortuga, and THIS was it!? A gathering of run-down whore houses and taverns that were so fortunate to have a port to call their own? Some grandeur THIS was. But, it was a town all the same, and she was grateful to be there with her life. Though - from the looks of it - she may not even have had THAT for long.  
  
A roughly-painted wooden sign proclaimed a derelict little building to be Lee's Tavern, probably the worst-looking lodging in the whole god- forsaken place. She was about to turn away and start looking for another place to stay, when the door burst open and a man tumbled out, knocking her to the ground.  
  
"Watch it, you miserable cur!" she hissed, pulling herself to her feet and brushing herself off. The stranger stood for a moment, wavering unsteadily on his feet, an empty rum bottle in his hand. When he finally seemed to realize what he'd done, his eyes widened, and he opened his arms to her, motioning to the open doorway.  
  
"Terribly sorry, love." His voice had a drunken sort of lisp to it. "Please, let me buy you a drink, by way of apology." He looked as though he'd already had several drinks, and she wondered if he'd be able to handle another. The mangy rat would probably drop if he had any more, but, a drink was a drink, and she was in need of a few. Sizing him up slowly, she nodded.  
  
"Good," he put his around her - ignoring her soaked appearance - as though guiding her through the door; almost causing her to fall through it, more likely. "Wot's your name, love?"  
  
"Caelar. Captain Ryenne Caelar." She pushed his hand off her shoulder and glared at him. "And don't call me love."  
  
The stranger blinked uncomprehendingly and sidled over to a small table, waving for the bartender. Ryenne sighed and sunk in to a chair across from him. The bartender - a squat, portly, balding man - hurried over with tow mugs of sour-smelling liquid. She sniffed it and took a tentative sip. It was probably the worst rum she'd ever come in contact with. The stranger tilted his mug bottoms-up and downed it. She stared at him in horrified awe.  
  
"What's YOUR name?" she demanded as he slammed the mug back down onto the table.  
  
"Uh..Bill. Bill Cunnings." He mumbled, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. "What ship do you belong to, Captain?"  
  
Ryenne narrowed her eyes, distrusting of "Bill's" slow answer. She'd given her own name freely enough, while he seemed to search for his. It could've been on the account of his drunkenness, but she doubted it; he was obviously lying. But what would he have to hide? Taking another swig of rum, she weighed whether or not to answer him true. Yes: she had nothing to hide, did she?  
  
"The Silver Gryphon." The name came off her tongue like a lead weight; the weight of truth. Her ship. Gone. "I put into port a few hours ago."  
  
Bill narrowed his eyes. "You're the captain of the Gryphon?"  
  
Ryenne looked up from her rum. "You know it?"  
  
"I've heard of it." He watched her intently as she gulped down the last of her rum, wincing against the bitter taste. "Want another?"  
  
"Umm...." Ryenne studied the bottom of her mug for a minute, then shook her head. "No, thanks. Something else, maybe?"  
  
Bill furrowed his eyebrows, confused. "Something else?"  
  
"Yes. Isn't there anything else?" Ryenne blinked; her head was beginning to throb already. This rum was strong.  
  
"No. What else would there be?"  
  
"Never mind." Ryenne signaled to the bartender. "I'll have another."  
  
???  
  
Quite a few drinks later, Ryenne had almost forgotten how bitter the rum was; it nearly tasted sweet now. Bill had turned out to be more enjoyable than she first thought. He tossed the silver readily to the bartender, and the rum flowed more freely than water. It reminded her of stories she'd heard as a child, stories of the ancient Greeks with their grape presses and ever-flowing rivers of wine. Their liquor-loving god, Dionysus, would easily become friends with Bill.  
  
Ryenne shook her head, trying to clear it. It didn't work. Other men - riff raff of the high seas and washed-up sailors, desperate for a drink to ease the pain of not belonging to a crew - crowded around them. It was clear that Bill made friends easily, or perhaps his silver did. And - distracted from her thoughts by loud, raucous laughter at some off-color joke - she joined in with a will, draining her mug as she did. Bill eyed her leerily.  
  
"You've got quite a head for liquor, eh, Captain?" he slurred with a half-smile. Feeling pleased despite herself at the use of her title, she noticed that the room was beginning to spin slowly.  
  
Slightly alarmed, she stood quickly, and Bill stood with her. Seeing him sway more drunkenly than he had before angered her in some strange way, and she had just enough time to snap, "And you have none!" before the filthy floor rushed up to meet her and thick darkness stole her senses.  
  
???  
  
Had she been conscious to see the scene that followed, some of the later discomfort might have dissipated and a whole fiasco may have been avoided, but, she wasn't, and that was another problem entirely.  
  
Her fall didn't catch Bill off-guard, however, and he caught her with a surprising grace, lifting her into his arms. There was another wave of raucous laughter - which he merely shrugged off - and a few lewd jokes - which he ignored all together. Brushing past the small crowd gathered around his table, he motioned to the bartender, and started up a narrow staircase near the back of the bar. The bartender grabbed a ring of brass keys and scurried up after him, muttering thickly under his breath.  
  
"Room 13.....room 13..."  
  
Bill stopped abruptly and turned to the bartender, brows furrowed. "This is NOT like THAT, Lee." The bartender smiled mischievously.  
  
"Isn't it always THAT way, Captain Jack?"  
  
"No. And it's Bill, while she's around." Bill nodded to Ryenne. "Some other room, please."  
  
The bartender shook his head knowingly. "Very well...Bill."  
  
"Thank you." Bill stopped in front of room number 9 and watched patiently as the bartender fumbled around for the key, still shaking his head. "I'll be down in a few minutes, Master Lee."  
  
"I'm sure, Bill." The bartender winked and hurried back down the narrow staircase.  
  
Bill, his head clear of the rum's effects, turned the door handle and shoved it open, revealing the familiar dusty darkness of the tavern's rooms. Cleanliness didn't much matter to most of the customers, however, as the rooms were mainly used for one purpose; he knew that well enough. It would have to do for now, as well.  
  
Crossing the room with a few short strides, he lied Ryenne atop the narrow bed and reached over to light the small oil lamp that sat on the table next to it. The flickering light shining across her face did something to him, but he quelled the feeling and placed a hand across her brow. It was unnaturally warm. He began to remove her coat, realizing as he did so, that it was strangely damp. Why hadn't he noticed before? She could be taken with fever, now. Shedding his own coat, he leaned over her once more, just in time to see her eyelids flutter open.  
  
??? 


	2. A Distant Memory

Ryenne's first conscious thought was that something was horribly wrong. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, squinting against the gleaming light that pained them so, and found Bill's face hovering mere inches from her own. Shoving him away, she pressed her eyes shut; reaching to pull her coat tighter around her, and found that she was no longer wearing it. Her eyes snapped open and rested on Bill, who was standing in grim surprise. He wasn't wearing his coat either: both were lying on the floor behind him, as though they had been hastily thrown there. Something was very wrong indeed.  
  
"What's going on?" she demanded, sitting up and clutching her reeling head.  
  
"Lie back, I'm going to-" Bill whispered soothingly, trying to force her to lie back onto the pillows, but she jerked away, accidentally rolling off the bed as she did so, and landing on the floor with a thump.  
  
"You're going to do absolutely nothing!" she screeched, throwing her hands up over her head to protect herself. "Get away from me!"  
  
Bill wouldn't listen. Bending over her with a pained expression, he tried - with little success - to pry her arms away from her face. "Look, love, I'm only trying to-" But what he was trying to do, Ryenne didn't wait to hear. Lashing out, she laid him with a solid blow across the face and clambered to her feet with a cry of anger. Somewhere in the scuffle, the lamp had tipped over and gone out, plunging the room into total darkness.  
  
"Remember this, Bill: I am not one to be trifled with!" She shouted, grabbing a coat from the floor and tearing the door open, tumbling into the narrow hallway beyond. Stuffing her hat atop her head, she didn't wait to hear any further noise from the bedroom, and took the staircase at full speed.  
  
The entire bar looked at her as she entered, erupting into harsh laughter: they knew, and she'd been made a joke, a fool. Shoving her way through the drunkards, she fought hard to keep the tears of embarrassment off her face. A few unseen hands pinched her, sending up new choruses of laughter. She would have sought out the cruel owners of these groping fingers, had she not wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.  
  
The air had taken on a chill that nipped and bit her as she ran down the half-abandoned streets of Tortuga. Finally noticing that she still carried the coat, she stopped to put it on and realized that it was not hers, but Bill's. Throwing it on all the same, she drew up the collar, and, unsuccessfully stifling a pitiful sob, let her feet carry her where they willed.  
  
They led her straight to the docks, where she stood in her abject misery, staring at the cold black water below. The water that caused so much trouble for her, that brought her here. The water she loved; how unfeeling and merciless it was. How easy it would be to plunge into its depths, never to return. How easy..... She kicked a pebble off the dock, watching it hit the water with a splash, turning into a graceful pattern of ripples, doubting that her descent into that cold, black abyss would produce the same result. Maybe the water wouldn't even ripple, she thought miserably. After all, everyone she'd ever thought she loved had let her down; would the sea do the very same?  
  
Forsaking her foolish pride, she let her tears trickle slowly down her face. How had it come to this, and why? Was there really no point left to live? How could she tell?  
A glimmer of light reached the corner of her eye, like a golden thread of hope finding its way to her, and she lifted her tearstained eyes from the water, instead, peering out over it at the great looming silhouette of a ship. Staring at it, she blinked uncertainly, wondering whether what she was seeing was true. Could it be a mirage? No, it was truly there. The Silver Gryphon, returning for its captain.  
  
???  
  
Feeling as though the whole world was hers, Ryenne stumbled up the gangplank of the Gryphon, still trying to force herself to recover from the effects of the rum. It was no matter, though. Her ship had returned! One of the crew stepped out onto the gangplank, supporting her when she unsteadily stepped onto the deck of the ship.  
  
"You feeling alright, Cap'n?" he asked, trying to look into her face. Not wanting him to see the traces of her tears, she turned away.  
  
"Fine. Just glad to be back on my ship." Her voice was thick with emotion, and she bowed her head, fearing she might cry for sheer joy.  
  
"Do you need to rest, Cap'n?"  
  
"I can only rest once I'm sure we're getting away from this godforsaken place." She muttered, leaning against the railing; the floor was spinning dangerously again.  
  
"Bad night?"  
  
"Just get me out of here." She turned to make her way to her cabin, but tripped over her own feet and fell face-first onto the deck. Jumping to her feet immediately, she nodded to the crew and set forth once more. Behind her, the crew sniggered as they began to make ready to set sail.  
  
The ship was strangely unfamiliar to her: she couldn't seem to find her cabin. Someone must have moved it, she told herself. Giggling at the thought, she braced herself on a what seemed to be a solid wooden door, and noticed - too late - that it was ajar. Picking herself up out of the wooden basin she'd fallen into, she realized - with a goodly amount of pleasure - that she'd found her cabin. Glancing around proved only to show that she was - in fact - in the right place, and, slamming the door behind her, she collapsed onto her rough bed, exhausted beyond belief, but happier than ever. Her ship had returned for her, and Tortuga was going to become a distant memory. A VERY distant memory. 


	3. Damn Girl

DISCLAIMER: We don't own any PotC stuff......dang.  
  
"Bill" heaved himself roughly off the dusty floor, massaging his throbbing face and scrabbling around in the dark for his coat and the doorknob. Why had Ryenne struck him, damn girl? Being so edgy when he was only trying to help her. It was as though she thought he was.. He shook his head angrily; the idea was ridiculous. He would never have taken advantage of her drunkenness, despite what anyone may have thought.  
  
Finding the cold brass of the doorknob under his fingers, he turned it and stepped into the dimly-lit corridor - unnaturally bright after the thick darkness of the bedchamber - shaking his head as he moved to put his coat on. The fabric felt strangely damp, and he bent to examine it, running his hands over its unfamiliar form. This wasn't his coat: it was Ryenne's.  
  
"Damn girl." He muttered, trudging down the staircase, hoping, perhaps, to find some trace of Ryenne in the tavern. He was sorely - but not surprisingly - disappointed. The whole of the place was in the midst of some uproarious joke, however, and seeing him in his state of semi-distress only caused them to laugh all the harder. Lee sidled up beside him, clapping a fat hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Well, Captain Jack, she certainly is a skittish filly, that one." He joked, a wry smile on his face.  
  
"What do you mean?" Jack asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as Lee began to chuckle evilly, waggling his finger under Jack's nose.  
  
"It IS always THAT way, Jack, and you can't fool us!"  
  
Jack shook his head crossly, pushing Lee's hand off his shoulder. "I did nothing of the sort. The girl was ill, and-" His response brought the room into an uproar, choking on their rum and shaking their heads knowingly.  
  
"Captain Jack, it's no good lying. That girl ran down here - red as a tomato and frightful upset - and she was carrying your coat!" he pointed to the ragged bundle in Jack's arms. "And look here, mates!"  
  
Not in a mood to be laughed at, Jack lowered his voice so only Lee, who leaned in conspiratorially close, could hear. "At least tell me which way she went, so I can find her and explain."  
  
"Straight out the door as fast as her legs would take her: that's where she went." Lee turned away, still smiling mischievously. "Once ye 'explain' to her, whatever it is ye mean to, I'd appreciate it if ye didn't bring her back in here. Listening to her screaming from up above didn't do much for me ears, if ye know what I mean, Cap'n."  
  
"Screaming?"  
  
"Oh, yes, Cap'n. She was yelling something awful. Loud, she was. Seemed mighty keen for someone to 'get off her', I believe it was."  
  
Jack coughed uncomfortably and nodded to Lee, who looked ready to burst with suppressed laughter. "My thanks very much." He couldn't get out the door fast enough, throwing it shut behind him. Damn girl; that damn girl. Setting off at a quick pace, he headed for the docks; it was time to set sail again.  
  
???  
  
The docks were abandoned when Jack finally reached them, burning with sort of furious embarrassment. If he never saw that Ryenne again, it would be all too soon. He'd gone from being one of the most respected pirates in the tavern, to being the laughing stock, in mere minutes. Fingering the buttons of the coat in his arms, he peered out over the water, searching for The Pearl. Its looming shadow caught his eyes, floating just off the coast, her sails raised and ready to make way. There was something odd about that, and he squinted across the water at it: it was moving!  
  
Throwing down the Ryenne's coat, he ran down the dock and - doing the only sensible thing he could think of - he dived off the end, swimming madly after his ship. The salty seawater burned his nose and stung at his eyes, but he kept going.  
  
"Stop the ship!" he shouted, throwing all his strength into reaching the Pearl. "Stop the ship! Gibbs, stop the ship!"  
  
???  
  
Aboard The Black Pearl, no human saw the slight churning of the water behind them that marked the presence of their absent captain, whom they didn't even know they were missing. Gibbs, the first mate, stood at the tiller, trying not to be too resentful of the Captain for taking leave from Tortuga so soon. He sighed, fumbling for the small flask he always kept near him to wet his throat every now and then, and cursing as they screeching of the mute sailor, Cotton's, parrot startled him.  
  
"Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!" it fluttered down to the stern of the ship. Gibbs watched it with distaste, and then looked at Cotton. The sailor followed the bird, motioning for Gibbs to come as well. He grumbled as he did so.  
  
"Wind in the sails? Of course there's bloody wind in the sails. Wouldn't be moving if there weren't. Bad luck to bring a bird on board.."  
  
As soon as he reached Cotton, the sailor pointed out across the water. Gibbs had to squint, but soon a faint voice drifted to them on the salty breeze and he could make out a person struggling to reach the ship.  
  
"Gibbs! Stop the bleedin' ship!"  
  
Gibbs looked uncertainly at Cotton. "Who's that?"  
  
Cotton's miming of a three-cornered hat didn't help him. Neither did his portrayal of long hair. But, as soon as he began staggering around as if he were drunk, understanding dawned. The next thing he knew, he was bellowing orders to put down the anchor and reef the sails, and crewmen came running, spurred by his frantic tone.  
  
???  
  
Jack was barely able to keep himself afloat, gasping and choking as he swam, fighting frantically against the wake of the Pearl as it threatened to push him backward. Had he been sober, the swim might not have been so difficult, but he wasn't, and the effects of the rum weighed heavily upon him.  
  
Suddenly, out of the blackness, he heard Gibb's coarse voice calling out to him. "Hold on, Cap'n Jack!" And it was then that he saw the anchor drop out of the sky, landing with a splash, mere feet from him; the rope immediately pulling taut.  
  
Grasping it firmly, he yelled, "Raise the anchor, Gibbs! Raise the bloody anchor!"  
  
Above the crashing of the waves, he could hear Gibbs shouting orders and Cotton's parrot, who was still shrieking "Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!" and then the rope gave a mighty heave, pulling him straight up out of the water. The wind sliced at him, hanging there on the rope as the crew pulled him up. When he was within arm's reach, they grabbed him roughly and hoisted him aboard, dropping a thick woolen blanket about his shoulders. He rounded on Gibbs, completely furious.  
  
"Why the BLOODY HELL did you set sail!?"  
  
"Well, because ye said to, Cap'n...." Gibbs scratched his head. "At least, we thought it was ye.."  
  
"Me? No, it couldn't have been; I've been out having a bloody wonderful swim!" Cotton's parrot perched on his master's shoulder and cawed loudly.  
  
"Shut up you ruddy bird." Jack grumbled, pouring the water out of his hat and boots. "Well, were is he then? Where's the 'captain'?"  
  
"I dunno, Cap'n. One minute, ye - I mean, they - was here, and they was disappeared." Gibbs answered slowly.  
  
"Disappeared?" Jack scoffed. "People don't just disappear-"  
  
"The cabin! The cabin!" the parrot screeched.  
  
"What?" Jack stared at the bird in amazement. It just cocked its head from side to side and ruffled its feathers. Turning abruptly on his heel, Jack strode across the deck, making his way to his cabin. Stopping in front of the door, he realized it was shut: not as he had left it. Too angry to bother with the handle, he kicked the door open, sending it crashing into the wall. A figure bolted upright in his bed, clutching the bedcovers around themself. It was Ryenne. Damn girl. 


	4. The Captain of the Silver Gryphon

It was disgusting in the brig. Rank seawater sloshed and swirled in the small cell with rotten walls she had been roughly shoved into, and the stench of mold and waste pervaded all of Ryenne's senses. She was positive that this far below decks, even HER ship wasn't this filthy.  
  
She leaned back against the side of the cell, too tired and listless to care about the cold damp that soaked her clothes, flowing back and forth with every rocking movement the ship made.  
  
Why had she come aboard? What kind of fool had she been to actually believe that, after her unceremonial dumping into the sea just off the port of Tortuga, her crew would return for her? A drunken one, she answered herself, feeling ashamed and betrayed. Her crew had hated her. Oh, not openly - at least, not until they committed the actual mutiny - but they hated having a woman in charge. They claimed that it was unnatural. And the terrible luck she'd been having for the past few months had not helped the few loyalties she'd been able to obtain prosper. Even Quinn, the first mate, and her dearest friend, had only watched, silent and apologetic, when they had forced her to the plank.  
  
Silently, she reflected on all of the events that had come to pass in the last few months. First, there had been Africa. Ryenne had had a notion that they might be able to make a profit by preying off the ships that came to the western coast for slaves. She had believed that surely, they must trade SOMETHING other than human flesh, as well. She had been wrong.  
  
They had attacked three ships leaving for the colonies, lying in wait on the far-out reefs that only a ship with a shallow keel - like the Gryphon's - could navigate. The first two ships had carried only slaves. In her disgust for the slave trade, she had taken the fierce, dark men and frightened women and children back to shore - and then ordered the slave drivers slaughtered, after making them watch every last slave go free on the shores of their homeland. She winced as she remembered the screams of the white men, their cowardly pleas for mercy. The massacre had eased her men's disappointment in the lack of treasure a little. They'd readily agreed to try one more ship.  
  
It was just this final choice of ship that had been unlucky.  
  
By all outward appearances, it was a merchant ship. And even better yet, it flew the British flag. So unless the English had had a severe change in their opinions of slavery.....there would be no Africans aboard. By assuming it was a merchant ship, the captain and crew of the Silver Gryphon had made their first mistake.  
  
For two days, they watched the Dauntless. And when - on the second day - it finally set sail, they followed. Out on the open seas, Ryenne had observed that, despite how low it was in the water, the other ship was fast. But she had been confident that the Gryphon was faster, especially seeing how its hold was virtually empty. This had been her second mistake.  
  
And the third and final mistake had occurred in the method in which they attacked the ship. It had been noon on the third day, and with the sun beating hotly down upon the waves, the Gryphon had moved in. The scene flashed in too-vivid detail before Ryenne's mind's eye: the glare on the water, the shouting of her own bloodthirsty men, even a lone seagull flying over the mast. Desperately, Ryenne tried to stop it, but all she could manage to do was speed it up a bit. She grudgingly resigned herself to the show.  
  
They had come up broadside to the Dauntless, though still a good four hundred yards away. The Jolly Roger - the skull and crossbones flag that was the typical pirate standard the world over - was jauntily waving in the stiff sea breeze. Ryenne stood on the quarterdeck, guiding her steersman. Suddenly, one of the deck hands had come running to her, shouting for her to look. She did - and groaned aloud. The Dauntless had CANNONS. How could she have missed the four, regularly-spaced portals in the side of the other ship? And here, she had been assuming all along that its weight was due to a rich cargo! Attempting to salvage her pride, she had ordered them to attack anyway - the Dauntless did not even attempt to flee, but instead stayed and waited for them fearlessly, as any other ship in the Royal Navy would.  
  
The ensuing battle - if it could even be called that - was short and altogether.......pointless. As soon as they had gotten close enough, both ships began to fire - and hit each other amidships. The Gryphon actually ended up getting in two shots, and in the end, the Dauntless's mast had split in two and they were barely able to sail. But the Gryphon had been hit too low on the side for the hole to be momentarily ignored, and they were shipping water quickly, the bilges filling. Ryenne had angrily ordered a retreat, and the two ships had limped away in opposite directions to lick their wounds and make repairs.  
  
For two days, they had found no safe port on the African coast, and did not even see a sign of civilization until they reached a small section of New Guinea, the French colony. When they put in, looking - in Ryenne's opinion - just like any other ship docked there (except for the gaping hole in their side), a small, balding man hurried out to greet them. His cheerful manner quickly changed when he saw her rag-tag mob of a crew, though, and he eyed them suspiciously, a distasteful look on his face. He'd asked in rapid French what they wanted there, and Ryenne had had to have one of her crew translate, knowing not a word of the language herself. She'd told the man that they wished only for some lumber to repair the ship and a few days to rest in the safety of the harbor, if he'd be so kind to oblige them.  
  
In the end - although they had lost the remainder of their gold in the bargain - they were allowed to stay and gather the wood for repairs. In just a few short days, during which the crew grew ever more quietly mutinous, they had been out on the open seas again, heading straight for..Tortuga, surprise, surprise. Two - perhaps three - days after they'd left the African coast, Ryenne found herself swept up in a mutiny. They confronted her while she stood at the tiller and hauled her off to the brig. Hated her, they did, but they didn't feel it right to drop her in the middle of the ocean, and so they waited until they were mere miles from Tortuga. If she couldn't swim to shore, they decided, her death was her own making.  
  
And that just about brings me up to the present, Ryenne thought grimly. IT was doubtful her luck could possibly have gotten worse. Except for the fact that, just a few minutes later, it did.  
  
Soft footsteps announced the presence of Bill- Captain Sparrow, she reminded herself bitterly. For a moment he stood outside the cell, simply watching her curiously, though with more than a hint of annoyance. Finally, she could stand it no longer. Leaning her head back against the wall, she looked at him through half-closed eyes.  
  
"Come to kill me, then?"  
  
His expression didn't change, although he did hold out one hand in the weak light, apparently examining his fingernails.  
  
"Kill you?" he drawled. "Perhaps. After all, you DID snap at me in the tavern, pass out and wake up assuming I meant to rape you-"  
  
"You did!" Ryenne growled, leaping to her feet with a foul-smelling splash of water. Sparrow took a quick step back and continued as if she had not spoken.  
  
"-steal my coat, strike me, ruin my reputation, and, worst of all: attempt to sail away on MY ship with MY crew."  
  
Ryenne was nearly speechless with righteous indignation: nearly.  
  
"I thought it was MY ship, same as I thought it was MY coat. And I was drunk!" She snapped.  
  
"Which, might I add, is your own fault."  
  
"AND," she shouted, warming to her tirade. "I can't help the fact that your crew is stupid enough to mistake a woman for you! It makes me wonder what that says about YOU, you mangy-"  
  
Sparrow cut her off, throwing his arms up hopelessly.  
  
"And now you insult me! No thanks, no apology, just insults!" his tone grew softly dangerous all of a sudden. "You dig yourself a deep hole, Miss Caeler. Be careful it does not swallow you."  
  
Ryenne crossed her arms over her chest and glared. He eyed her balefully.  
  
"It's no wonder to me that your crew left you in Tortuga. You'd be a right horror in command."  
  
This was too much for her. The tears she had stopped from falling for days suddenly began, and, self-control disappearing entirely, she lunged at the bars of the cell, screaming.  
  
"Fine! Kill me, then! I'm no use to you or to ANYBODY, so just KILL ME!" she fell back, sobbing.  
  
Jack showed his first sign of alarm so far, eyes going wide as he cautiously re-approached the cell. "You know." He said quietly, peering at her. "I don't think I want to be doing that right now."  
  
"And, why not?"  
  
He waited a moment before responding, pointing at her.  
  
"Because...you still have my coat, and I'm sure as hell not coming in there to get it off you, now."  
  
And with that, he sauntered up to the deck, followed by Ryenne's outraged shriek.  
  
???  
  
"Bloody emotional females.." Jack grumbled, gripping the tiller in white- knuckled fury. "Assume too bloody much and shout at you about something that never happened."  
  
"Aye, cap'n." Gibbs laughed, leaning against the railing with a knowing smile on his face. "She's a fiery one, all right." He took a swig of whiskey from his flagon.  
  
"Gibbs, how could you possibly have mistaken her for me?" Jack snapped, snatching the flask from Gibb's hands and draining it quickly. Tossing it back, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I mean to say...there are certain.....things.. about a woman that are, well, -"  
  
"It was dark, cap'n." Gibbs explained gruffly. "And when she staggered up the gangplank in yer coat and yer hat, acting like she owned the whole world, we only figured it was ye. If it weren't fer that ruddy bird, ye'd still be swimmin'." He motioned to Cotton's parrot, which cocked its head at them and screeched, "Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!"  
  
"Hmph...wait, Gibbs, she didn't steal my hat."  
  
"Had one like it, then." Jack nodded slowly, taking out a compass and peering at it. "We headed to Isla de Muerta, cap'n?"  
  
"Not right now, Gibbs. That compass is in my coat." He glanced at his first mate and asked casually, "What do you know about the captain of the Silver Gryphon?"  
  
"The Gryphon? That the one that attacked the Dauntless, 'bout a week ago?"  
  
"The very same."  
  
"I've heard that the cap'n of the Gryphon is ruthless. Has a right hot temper, too." Gibbs shook his head. "Rumor has it; there was a mutiny a few days ago, though. Dropped the cap'n off right in the middle of the ocean."  
  
"Not quite the middle." Jack mumbled to himself, turning to Gibbs. "And, did you know that the Captain of the Gryphon is a woman?" Gibbs raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. "And, furthermore, did you know that that very woman in locked in the brig this very moment?"  
  
"The cap'n of the Gryphon?"  
  
Jack nodded, a wicked smile on his face. "Ryenne Caeler, Captain of the Silver Gryphon."  
  
Gibbs laughed. "That little tripe, ruthless? Attacked the Dauntless? Doesn't seem likely, Jack."  
  
"You'd be surprised." He rubbed his cheek, remembering the solid blow Ryenne had laid him earlier that night. "Whoever told you about her temper must've known what they were talking about."  
  
"What happened there, cap'n? Looks like ye've got a bruise comin'."  
  
Jack snorted, snapping the compass shut. "A bruise, eh? Well, I'm sure she'll be pleased about that. Damn girl...." 


	5. Two Captains

Ryenne kicked the bars of the cell over and over again, trying to expend some of her pent-up anger but only succeeding in making her foot ache terribly. Letting out a small scream of frustration, she sat down with a splash, pulling Jack's coat tighter around herself and gasping as a hard object dug painfully into her ribs. Fumbling around in the semi-darkness, she fished a small square box from the front pocket and opened it. A broken compass.  
  
"Hmph." She snorted, examining it. It appeared to be a normal compass, save for the fact that it didn't work - so why would he keep it in his pocket? It wasn't encrusted with jewels or gold, just a simple wood and metal thing. Completely worthless......or was it?  
  
She turned it slightly, then more so; it WAS pointing to something, though it wasn't north. Smiling cleverly to herself, she jammed it back into her pocket, closing her eyes contentedly. Maybe there was some hope of bargaining her way out of the cell and to shore; if the compass was really worth anything at all, that was. All she had to do was wait. There was no telling how long she'd be waiting, but there was no use in fretting about it.  
  
Sighing resignedly, Ryenne leaned back against the worm-eaten wall and hummed a little tune to herself. If she played her cards right, things might not turn out so horribly, after all.  
  
???  
  
Jack lay sprawled on his bed in the cabin, irritably counting all the things that had gone wrong since they had put in to port in Tortuga. The greatest problem being, of course, the one locked in a cell somewhere beneath him. Her presence on the ship made it near impossible to go to de Muerta; that was his possessive side reasoning with him. It was HIS island, and HIS treasure. He had been through more than enough regarding that. She could not be allowed to know its location.  
  
But they needed to go there. Jack had plans to be made and goals to be met. He had the feeling another trip to the Orient was at hand. And in order to do that, they needed...gold. And, short of attacking every ship they came across, there was only one place they could obtain a substantial amount.  
  
Well, he could just leave her locked in the brig for the whole trip. She couldn't cause much trouble there, he supposed. And besides, he had the compass he had purposefully broken and reset so that it pointed permanently in the direction of the Isle, so...he nodded decisively. Ryenne Caelar, upstart and damn girl that she was, could just rot.  
  
Standing, he crossed the small, roughly elegant room to the desk he kept his detailed carefully rolled out upon. Opening a lower drawer, he felt about for the small, reassuring weight of the compass. It wasn't there.  
  
Panicked, he threw open the next drawer, and the next. Real compass, sextant, lead weight - and a distinguished absence of the one thing he sought. Leaving the drawers haphazardly open, he snatched an ornate, silver candelabra and stalked out onto the deck. It was near one o'clock in the morning, and he glared at the crewman about to call second watch as he went below. The crewman gulped, visibly aware of his captain's anger, and decided to go to the crew's area to wake the next watch himself.  
  
In the hull, Jack stopped in front of Ryenne's cell, feeling somewhat calmed by the miserable conditions below. She deserved it, he thought with satisfaction. Bringing the light closer, he saw - with relief - the small bulge in the pocket of her - his - coat. He thanked his lucky stars she had fallen asleep close to the bars, thus eliminating his need to open the cell and risk her wrath.  
  
He crouched, silently setting the candle down beside him. The soft, flickering light played over her features, creating an innocence there he was sure he was imagining, and made the dark circles beneath her eyes far more pronounced. Her mouth twitched, her lips drawn into a deep, sad sort of frown that almost made Jack take pity on her. Almost.  
  
Peering at her for a moment to make she was truly asleep, he found himself satisfied, and stretched his hand tentatively through the bars. Ryenne sighed in her sleep - making him suck in his breath sharply - but she didn't move, and he reached further. When his fingers connected with the smooth, cool wood of the compass, he let out his breath with a whoosh, sliding it gently from her pocket.  
  
All of a sudden, her hand shot up, snaring him around the wrist and catching him completely off-guard. He choked back a gasp, trying futilely to wrench his arm away, but she only gripped it tighter, closing her other hand upon his wrist as well. Her fingernails were digging into his flesh as she tried to pry the compass loose, but he held firm. Gritting his teeth, he tried to pull away, although his shoulder felt as though it were coming out of the socket.  
  
Ryenne, it seemed, had forgotten any shred of dignity she might have had left. Jack watched in horror as she bent her head and sunk her teeth into his wrist. Letting out a howl of pain, he dropped in and extracted his arm from her grip, briefly examining the bite marks on his wrist. The compass landed with a splash, and they dived for it simultaneously, but she reached it first. She laughed, holding it tantalizingly beyond his reach.  
  
"I knew you'd come looking for it! After all, why would you keep a broken compass, unless it was important?" the question was rhetorical, but he answered it anyway.  
  
"Because I'm a pack rat?" he offered.  
  
Ryenne raised her eyebrows. "Not likely. You even went to the bother of trying to steal it from me."  
  
"Steal it from YOU, you savage?" Jack scoffed, crossing his arms sullenly over his chest. "It was MINE to begin with."  
  
"Savage?" she pretended to look offended, ramming the compass back into her pocket. "Now you insult me!"  
  
He brandished the now-bleeding teeth marks at her.  
  
"That's right, you bloody savage! You bit me!"  
  
"Whoops." She said in mock innocence, batting her eyelashes at him. He just merely glared at her through half-closed eyes. Somehow, she found this quite amusing. "I suppose you'll be wanting your compass back, eh, Captain?"  
  
Jack cringed at her mocking use of his title, taking a step towards her. She took a step back as well, leaning casually against the wall, a coy smile on her face. "There are a few conditions, you realize."  
  
He snorted. "Conditions, love? This is MY ship and that is MY compass. You're lucky to be alive, and you certainly don't deserve to be-"  
  
"But," she taunted. "I AM alive, and I have your compass. You are at my mercy."  
  
"Actually, love, I'd say it was the opposite." He laughed mirthlessly. "You're outnumbered fifty to one."  
  
She cocked her head to one side, sounding aggrieved. "Oh. Well then, I could just as easily smash it." Her hand hovered dangerously near the pocket that held the compass. Jack screwed up his face, watching her with ill-concealed apprehension. Would she really do it? It was impossible that she truly knew how important that compass was - if she had, the thought of breaking it would never have entered her mind. Treasure always had the same effect on pirates everywhere - that much he knew. That compass was worth more than his own life; but was there any way for him to get it without telling her?  
  
Ryenne was now raising the small russet box threateningly, ready to smash it against the side of the cell. She could see that Jack was thinking hard, trying desperately not to show how important the compass really was (and failing miserably). But Ryenne was running out of patience. As she brought the compass down with as much force as she could muster, the thought did cross her mind that he could easily kill her after she had broken it - there would be nothing to stop him then. And he was eyeing the bite marks she had given him with considerably mounting annoyance.  
  
"No! Stop!"  
  
He was a moment too late to completely stop her, but she managed to lessen the blow enough to save the compass. He watched in anguish as she tossed it up in the air and caught it, examining the side that had struck the wood. It wasn't even scratched.  
  
"Ha. No harm done, Captain." She said merrily, grinning widely at him. "Although, you may not be so lucky next time. Come to your senses, then?"  
  
"Hardly," Jack spat at her, relief making him angry. How DARE she toy with him like this, he thought fiercely as she raised a cool eyebrow, bringing the compass up again. "Listening to you is definitely NOT what I would call sensible. But...." Oh, how he hated admitting defeat! "It looks as if I have no other option."  
  
Ryenne gave him a catlike smile, hiding her relief at his decision. In her subconscious, she had not wanted to die at all. However, any gratitude she might have felt was swiftly replaced by a strong desire to make him pay for all the trouble he had caused her. Holding the compass - which he was gazing longingly at - well out of reach, she leaned against the worm-riddled wood of the wall again and looked at him.  
  
"Apparently not." Jack's look of infuriated helplessness became much more pronounced. "And, as to my conditions-"  
  
"Oh, bloody hell..." He mumbled, turning his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh as Ryenne fiddled with the compass, snapping the lid open and closed. Hearing his grumblings, she blinked uncomprehendingly.  
  
"Hmm?" her tone of voice was incredibly condescending and the way she held the compass said that her question demanded an answer.  
  
"Oh, nothing. Just being blackmailed on my own ship by a savage. And with my personal effects, no less."  
  
She grinned, and he almost swore he could see fangs. Sighing melodramatically, she held out her hand in front of her, examining her fingers in the dim light; a mocking gesture.  
  
"Well, Captain, I don't' think there's anything I want that you could give me..."  
  
He rolled his eyes angrily, fully ready to strangle her - once he could reach her throat, that is. "Don't be daft. I've got everything you could possibly want at a moment like this."  
  
"Oh, REALLY? Well, I suppose it IS rather dark in this cell.."  
  
"A candle would fix that." He offered snidely.  
  
"....and damp...."  
  
"We're in the bloody middle of the bloody OCEAN!" his patience was fraying quickly. Very quickly.  
  
"Oh, right. Then..I suppose..." She put a finger to her lips, as though she were thinking deeply. "...give me my coat back, full captain's rights on your ship, and let me out of here..then we're square."  
  
"I don't have your ruddy- " Jack paused, and something clicked in his mind. His jaw dropped and he sputtered wildly, waving his arms. "FULL CAPTAIN'S RIGHTS!? ARE YOU MAD!?!?"  
  
"You don't have my coat?" Ryenne pouted, shrugging nonchalantly. "That's a pity.... In that case, I shall require a new coat, as well. One that's in good condition."  
  
"THIS IS *MY* SHIP!!" he began to pace back and forth in front of the cell. "*MY* SHIP AND *MY* CREW!!!"  
  
She did not seem the least bit affected by his rantings. In fact, she looked even more pleased with herself, if that was possible.  
  
"I had realized that."  
  
"DID you?!? BECAUSE I-"  
  
"No need to yell, my dear Captain."  
  
Jack jumped at the bars of the cell, clenching his fists and shaking them at her. Biting back a thousand insults, he stepped away from himself for a moment: was the compass really worth THIS? ....Yes....It was. The compass meant Isla de Muerta, and riches beyond most men's wildest dreams. If this was what he had to do to get that, then he would do it - though not happily. Gritting his teeth, he unclenched his fists and stared down at Ryenne, who was still smiling coyly.  
  
"Do you mean to demote me?" his voice was tight and clipped.  
  
"Sadly, no, dear Captain. I only wish to have the rights I had stolen from me restored."  
  
"I didn't steal them from you!"  
  
"And I'm not stealing them from YOU, only...sharing them, you might say."  
  
Deciding that a sigh wouldn't encompass the extreme frustration he was feeling, he collapsed onto a chair, burying his face in his hands. He could hear Ryenne snickering quietly and decided to ignore it as best he could.  
  
"Two captains...." he muttered. "Oh, dear God....." 


	6. Jack's Cabin

Ryenne stood at the bow of the ship, hands on her hips, the fresh sea breeze whipping through her hair. She felt at home, completely safe, regardless of the bloodthirsty men all around her, and - for the moment - nothing could take that feeling away from her. The shouting of the men and the general racket created by a ship at sea did nothing to distract her from her thoughts, not even the parrot that fluttered about, screeching, "Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!" at her.  
  
Further back along the ship, certain other people were not enjoying the fine weather quite so much. Jack leaned on the railing, staring at the swirling waves far below breaking upon the side of his ship. Gibbs clapped a hand upon his shoulder, a hopeful sort of smile on his face.  
  
"Oh, cap'n, it's really not that horrible."  
  
Jack turned the full force of his glare on Gibbs, who gulped visibly and backed away a few steps. "Not that horrible?" he repeated in a dangerous whisper. "Gibbs, she's taking over my ship!"  
  
He fished in the front pocket of his coat - which he had reclaimed from Ryenne - and pulled out the broken compass, gazing at it dejectedly. It was causing him so much trouble, thought the result was well worth the cost. How long would he have to share his ship with the tyrant, now? And could he still risk the journey to Isla deMuerta?  
  
The sound of Cotton's parrot screeching snapped him out of his reverie, and he looked around for the ruddy bird. It was perched on Ryenne's left shoulder, cawing, "Aye aye, cap'n!" and bobbing its head at her. His face going white with rage, Jack stormed to the tiller, clenching the compass in his fist. 'Bird's of a feather....' He thought self- righteously, glancing at Ryenne and the parrot once more.  
  
The firm wood of the tiller under his hands calmed him slightly and he began to sing quietly to himself, trying to raise his own spirits a smidgeon.  
  
"Na na na na na-na, na na na-na naaa....and really bad eggs....drink up, me hearties, yo ho...."  
  
"What're you singing?" Jack jumped at the voice behind him, and spun around to see Ryenne staring quizzically at him. Clearing his throat, he turned back to the tiller, fixing his glare on the open air in front of himself.  
  
"Ah...you're giving me the silent treatment, eh?" Ryenne laughed, moving up beside him. "I can't say that I didn't expect it."  
  
"Is your purpose in life to ruin mine?" he snapped, glancing at the compass and turning the tiller slightly. "Because you're doing a bloody good job of it."  
  
"You're welcome." She replied cheerfully, patting him on the shoulder as though he were a particularly favorite pet of hers. He brushed her off solemnly. "We're going to the place the compass is pointing, aren't we?"  
  
"It would appear so, wouldn't it?"  
  
Ryenne tutted, waggling a finger under his nose. "There, there, Captain. No need to be so snappish."  
  
"Hmph."  
  
"So, where IS this place we're going?"  
  
Jack muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and looked at his compass once again. She narrowed her eyes and stepped in front of him, crossing her arms across her chest.  
  
"As second captain of this ship, I demand to know our destination!"  
  
Jack mirrored her stance. "And, as FIRST captain of this ship, I refuse to tell you!" Ryenne rolled her eyes impatiently.  
  
"Fine, O Great One, I'll just go and ask Mr. Gibbs. He's bound to know."  
  
"Isla de Muerta." Jack sighed, snapping his compass closed. "That is our destination, savvy?"  
  
Ryenne shook her head, laughing mirthlessly. "You're not going to fool ME, Captain. Where-"  
  
"We are going to Isla de Muerta?"  
  
She stared at him disbelievingly for a moment, unsure of what to say, then tapped her temple as though it had all suddenly fallen into place in her mind. He glared gripping the tiller once more.  
  
"Ah, yes. I've heard of you, Captain Sparrow, and your ridiculous fantasy adventures. Had an encounter with some 'terrifying' ghost pirates a few years ago, didn't you? Found an island cave filled to the brimming with riches? Broke a curse and escaped a hangman's noose? Rubbish." Jack raised an eyebrow and watched her pace back and forth in front of him. "Quite unbelievable, if you ask me. And where are we REALLY going? Off to find a unicorn, are we?" She glared at him, as though expecting something. He laughed and shook his head reminiscently.  
  
"You sound like Elizabeth, saucy tart."  
  
"Who is Elizabeth?"  
  
"Oh, no one, really. Just a figment of my imagination; someone from my 'ridiculous fantasy adventures'."  
  
She just looked at him. "You really are quite annoying, you know."  
  
"Funny, I was just about to say the same thing about you."  
  
And with that, he stalked off to his cabin.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne watched him go, slamming the door behind himself with an ill- tempered bang. A wicked smile played about her lips. Ooh, it was so fun to bait him. And he thoroughly deserved it, she though with immense satisfaction.  
  
But one thing he had said HAD given her pause. This Elizabeth - who was she? She had heard that the governor of the Port Royale colony had had a daughter called Elizabeth, or Eliza or some such - but the chances of a ruffian like Jack being mixed up in anything having to do with her.....the thought was downright laughable. Or was it? Well, true or no, she could not dismiss it from her mind. Absently, she swatted away Cotton's parrot and started for Sparrow's cabin.  
  
???  
  
Jack lay on the narrow bed wedged into the corner of his cabin, arms crossed under his head and eyes shut, trying to put every single event of the past few days from his mind. And almost succeeding, which was a wonder. He let out a deep breath, willing himself to release all the tension that had been building up inside him. He was actually glad they were leaving Tortuga; cliché though it was, he was very much aware of the truth of the old saying that the sea was a real sailor's only love, no matter how many mistresses they had.  
  
Smiling to himself, he envisioned the heaps of gold awaiting his return at de Muerta. All his....shining, bright, beautiful gold.....jewelry, swords, goblets, crowns and nuggets, all begging to be either used or hoarded, however he chose...  
  
Even lost in his golden thoughts, Jack's keenly honed senses were aware of the sound of the door opening. In tones of mild reproach, he said, "Gibbs, you didn't knock." He didn't bother to open his eyes, but only waited for his first mate's response. The voice he heard, however, was certainly not Gibbs's. And it had a decidedly female ring to it.  
  
"Yes, well, I suppose if I were Mr. Gibbs, I would've needed to knock, but seeing how I'm not.....I don't."  
  
That made Jack open his eyes. Springing to his feet, he took a few steps towards her with the mad idea of physically kicking Ryenne out the door - and thought better of it. She didn't move, but stood - quite calm - looking around HIS cabin as if she owned it, her hand dangerously close to the long dagger on her belt that she had appropriated from some poor crews man. Seeing how he was not himself so armed - the nearest hidden knife he had being in a secret slot under the desk directly to her left - he settled for a lot of indignant sputtering and arm-waving.  
  
"What do you think you're doing!?! This is MY cabin! You can't just come waltzing in here like-"  
  
"Captains' rights," she said innocently, eyes wide. Then she wrinkled her nose. "Besides, I don't know HOW to waltz."  
  
"Well, maybe you should LEARN!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, losing any and all sense of reason. "Waltzing is a thing CIVILIZED, DECENT people do instead of barging into any bloody place they like!!!"  
  
Ryenne nodded in perfect agreement.  
  
"Yes, barging is more rather what I did, isn't it?" she laughed at his perplexed expression. "But honestly, you make it seem much worse than it truly is. Besides," she said, glancing around his large, but spartanly- furnished cabin critically. "You haven't really got much of a place to barge into."  
  
"I'll keep my cabin the way I like it, thank you," Jack retorted fiercely, adding almost as an afterthought, "And don't you dare get any bloody ideas about changing a single bloody thing about it! None of that 'woman's touch' business." He grimaced at the thought. Any touch of Ryenne's was probably fatal. The woman was a positive viper.  
  
But then she did something that astonished him. Taking a few steps closer to him so hat they were a mere three feet or so apart, she suddenly stuck out a hand. He looked at it warily.  
  
"Wot's that for?"  
  
She sighed impatiently. "I want a truce. Only for the moment, mind you, but I really do."  
  
Jack was still watching her hand as if it was suddenly going to grow teeth, lash out and bite him.  
  
"Why?" he said edgily. He was beginning to be irritated by her sudden change of tactics. What did she want now?  
  
"I just want to talk to you..........." Jack prepared himself for the worst- "....about all your alleged adventures. I want to know how much is really true - what I've heard, that is."  
  
"There's no reason for you to know that. You've already judged them all false." He snapped, furious that she would want - so she said - to hear about his travels NOW, after she had so callously scoffed at them. Had the woman no shame?  
  
"Fine," she spat back, withdrawing her hand quickly and glaring. "But I'll have you know that I'll find out eventually. You've proven to be a pretty pathetic pirate so far, Captain Jack. I wanted to believe that perhaps you were a fraction of how great the stories make you out to be, but it's not going to take much more to convince me of quite the opposite!" Jack blinked at her when she finished, wishing he had something scathing to say in reply. But the truth was, he was beginning to feel rather pathetic - although not for any reasons SHE would understand. He never got a chance to respond, however, because as fast as her hot burst of anger had come....it left.  
  
Yea Gods! Jack thought with considerable alarm as Ryenne turned her attentions to the surface of his desk, which was littered with unrolled maps, a white quill pen, and a black, obsidian inkwell. She was like quicksilver, moods changing so quickly he could barely keep up.  
  
"Ooh, this is nice," she said, picking up the inkwell and watching how the light was reflected by the smooth, black stone. "Where did you get it?"  
  
Jack then treated her to a pithy series of observations about her physical appearance, personality, and character traits, closely followed by various speculations about her family's heritage and predictions of her near future if she didn't immediately put down his hand-carved-and-polished inkwell that had been given to him by a native somewhere off the coast of the Hawaiian Islands as a gift for saving his son's life from a bloodthirsty shark. This unfortunately left him gasping for breath and nearly unable to respond when Ryenne said, completely unfazed, "Oh. So you got it in Hawaii, then?"  
  
He made a very strangled noise and lunged at her, snatching away the inkwell and spattering himself with black India ink in the process. Ryenne pursed her lips.  
  
"Come now, there's no need for that. All you had to do was ask - I would've given it back."  
  
"Oh, right." Jack said acidly, carefully placing the inkwell back on the desk. "Same as all I have to do is ask nicely and you'll give me back my ship, my crew, my cabin and my LIFE!"  
  
"I didn't know I was in possession of your life," she said thoughtfully. "Thank you for informing me." Then her voice turned harder. "But as for your ship and crew, well, I certainly haven't taken THOSE from you. I'm only in temporary partnership of the running of them. How many times do I have to tell you?" she paused, glancing around his cabin. "Your cabin, also, is still yours," he sighed with relief, and she added, "For now."  
  
He stood rooted to the spot as she turned and began opening drawers in his desk and bureau, tossing some things out at random, and examining some with interest. Unsure of what to do, he paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes at her second sudden change of mood. But he'd had more than enough. Sidling closer to her, he stood behind her and feigned interest in telling her about each item. And now, his smile was all too real as he formulated a plan in his mind. 


	7. Sharks

Ryenne was surprised when Jack showed no annoyance at her rummaging through his things-she had wondered if she had gone too far this time. But no-he stood behind her, telling her that this thing he had gotten off a Chinese sailor, and be careful with that book because it was old and the pages tore easily. His tone and mannerisms were perfectly amiable - until she suddenly found the point of her own dagger pressed to her throat, forcing her to stand on tiptoe. She didn't dare move and risk cutting her own throat, so she stood rigid, afraid to even breathe. Behind her, she could hear Jack's throaty laugh and she flushed angrily, dropping the silken shirt she'd been holding. Her pride immediately took over, and she straightened her shoulders, tilting her chin up.  
  
"I wondered when you would decide to kill me." Her voice was haughty, though she truly wanted to cower in fear.  
  
Ryenne flinched slightly as Jack leaned closer to her. She could feel his warm breath on her ear as he whispered,  
  
"If you'd be so kind as to remove yourself from my chamber, love, I'd be much obliged." The rough edge of the dagger scraped her throat as she nodded slightly, and she felt his hand on the small of her back. He pushed her a few firm steps towards the door, then opened it and shoved her out.  
  
"Miserable cretin," she grumbled as the door slammed behind her. A couple of passing crews men gave her questioning looks, to which she responded with an icy stare, and hurried on their way. As she watched them walk away, an idea sprang into her head and she smiled.  
  
"You there!" She called, pointing to the younger of the two-a scrawny young man who had a rather twitchy look about him-and crooked her finger at him. "I have a job for you."  
  
The boy looked, perplexed, his blue eyes widening dramatically.  
  
"But Captain Jack said-"  
  
"Oh, forget what he said," she snapped, sizing him up. He couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. "What's your name, boy?"  
  
"Quinn."  
  
Ryenne jumped at the name, a shadow specter from her past. Fate had a cruel and unusual sense of humor. She shook it off, putting a hand on his shoulder and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  
  
"Alright, Quinn lad, this is what I need you to do..."  
  
???  
  
Jack swore as a loud knock at the door made him jump, splattering ink all over the map he was marking possible routes on. Throwing down his quill, he stalked to the door, throwing it open with a growl.  
  
"What do you want, Ry-" He paused, seeing the scrawny boy standing outside his door. "Oh. Sorry, Quinn lad, I was expecting...er...someone else."  
  
Quinn nodded as though accepting the apology. "Captain Sparrow, I have a message for you from Captain Caelar."  
  
Jack sighed, rubbing his temples irritably. "What is it, then?"  
  
"She inquires as to where she will be lodging tonight, sir."  
  
"Bloody woman," he mumbled under his breath, trying to think fast. Waving the boy away, he said, "Tell her she can have Gibbs's cabin; he can move in with the second mate."  
  
Quinn hurried away with a slight bob of his head, and Jack sighed once more. How much trouble would this woman cause before she ruined his life completely? *Not much longer till that happens,* he thought bitterly.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne paced around her tiny cabin, too restless to even think about sleeping. Even the rhythmic creaking and swaying of the ship couldn't lull her to sleep, nor the soft light of the single flickering candle she'd placed on her desk. Her eyes raked over the near-empty room, occupied only by a small writing desk, the rough cot she sat upon, and a wooden chair. Gibbs had taken his personal effects with him to the other cabin, and - as she had none of her own - the cabin seemed distant and unfamiliar to her; not even a speck of color to brighten it. The mere sight of it all depressed her.  
  
Wrapping herself in a blanket - as Jack had yet to give her another coat - she trudged out of her cabin, up the stairs, and onto the deck, breathing in the cold night air. The night was clear, and the stars shone bright as jewels on the open black expanse of sky. Ryenne's fingers ached longingly when she thought of jewels, and she wondered how long it had been since she had the familiar weight of them resting in her palm. Oh, how she missed the feeling of having her purse full of gold; rich and contented, without a care in the world. All she felt now was cold and alone, not a friend to keep her company....well, with the exception of that parrot, that was.  
  
"Hmph." She laughed at the thought, though it was not remarkably humorous. A bird was her only friend. How pathetic.  
  
Hugging herself tight, she leaned slightly over the railing of the ship, staring at the churning, black water far below. It was no less inviting than it had been the night she stepped aboard the Pearl, but she'd lost her nerve. A cold shudder ran through her as she realized, had she not seen the Pearl in the first place, she would have been dead. She jumped away from the railing - repelled by the thought - and landed on her back with a loud thud, effectively making the wind rush from her lungs. Choking and gasping for breath, she rubbed her ribs gently.  
  
"What am I doing here?" she whispered to herself, pressing her eyes shut. No matter how she tried, she couldn't find a tangible reason, letting herself be swallowed in self pity. The weight of the dark night pressed upon her, and she sighed, pulling the blanket over herself and staring into the expanses of star-studded velvet sky.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne awoke abruptly to the sound of Jack's outraged voice.  
  
"What are you DOING here!?"  
  
"What does it look like?" she grumbled, rolling onto her back and blinking in the bright morning sunshine. Jack appeared unamused, uttering a strangled noise and heaving her to her feet.  
  
"I mean, what are you doing HERE - on deck - when I went through the trouble of finding you a cabin!?"  
  
"You mean, stole one from Gibbs." She muttered, tearing her arm away and sleepily stumbling a few feet before gaining her balance.  
  
"Well, what other option was there?" he hissed, grabbing her blanket off the deck and shoving it at her. "MY cabin? That would be a feather in your cap, wouldn't it now?"  
  
"Not everything is about YOU, you know!" she retorted angrily, falling back against the railing of the ship and swinging her blanket wildly in a moment of frustration. "Sometimes - WHOAH!" For a moment, her face mingled with surprise and horror as she lurched dangerously, losing her balance and tumbling backward over the railing, the blanket flying from her hands.  
  
"Ryenne!" Jack shouted, jumping to catch her arm, but he was too late, and - with a shrill scream - Ryenne fell into the water below.  
  
She landed with a loud splash, choking and sputtering as she came to the surface, flailing her arms as though trying to seize hold of something to pull herself out of the churning green waves. Finding her bearings, she began to tread water and wiped her eyes, squinting up at Jack, who was leaning over the railing with a terrified expression on his face.  
  
"No harm done, Captain!" she laughed as he waved his arms at her, trying to catch her attention.  
  
"Ryenne! Don't make ANY sudden movements!" he called back, his tone making her blood run cold. Scanning the water around her quickly, she found the cause of Jack's terror - and her own: two iron-gray fins jutted out of the water, slowly circling her. Sharks.  
  
???  
  
Jack bent double over the railing, evaluating the situation below him with suppressed dismay; he HAD to remain calm, for Ryenne's sake, if not for his own.  
  
"MAN OVERBOARD!" the watchman shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth and pointing to Ryenne as the crew came running. "MAN OVERBOARD!"  
  
Jack scanned his mind frantically for a plan - any plan - and his hand alighted on his pistol. Turning quickly, he grabbed a passing crewman by the sleeve and hissed, "Get me a rope. A long rope." The man gave him an odd look, but hastened to obey.  
  
Shedding his coat with a shrug of his shoulders, Jack grabbed the coiled rope from the crewman's hands and tossed one end at him. "Tie that end off to something sturdy, and use a strong knot." He ordered, wrapping some of the slack around his hands. A hand clapped him on the shoulder and spun him around, and he found himself face-to-face with a very confused, very disgruntled Gibbs.  
  
"What're ye doin', Cap'n? Are ye MAD!?" He shrugged Gibbs's hand off his shoulder and forced a half-smile onto his face.  
  
"I've got to help her, Gibbs!" and with that, he jumped over the side of the ship, letting out a loud yell.  
  
His hands slipped slightly as the rope pulled taut, and he felt the skin being ripped from his palms, a surge of burning, fiery pain coursing through his nerves. Sucking his breath through his clenched teeth in a sharp gasp, he let himself slide down the rope further, bringing him closer to the water; to Ryenne. He could see her staring bewilderedly up at him, but - for the moment - he needed to concentrate on other things.  
  
Gripping the rope as tight as he could with one hand, he wrenched his pistol from his belt with the other, his bleeding fingers slipping on the handle. Now, if he could only get a bit closer to that shark...  
  
"Jack!" Ryenne shouted his name in a sort of gurgled scream, and he lost his grip on the pistol. It slipped from his grasp before he could do anything to stop it, and landed a few feet away from the nearest shark with a small splash. He uttered a choked noise and fumbled around his belt for something else, trying to move his knife out of the way so he could FIND something....his KNIFE!  
  
He slide his knife from the sheath quickly and stared at the familiar polished steel blade: his best one. Heaving a mental sigh, he took aim....and hurled it. The silvery blade buried itself in the nearer shark, slicing through the tough skin as easily as if it were silk. The creature let out an odd sort of bellowing as crimson blood began to flow freely from the wound, clouding the water around it. Just as Jack had hoped it would, the smell of fresh blood in the water distracted the other shark from Ryenne's presence as it began to attack its fellow with a cannibalistic ferocity.  
  
Taking advantage of this moment of diversion, Jack gently called Ryenne's name and reached out his hand to her. "Can you reach me?" she nodded shakily, slowly swimming toward him and gripping his wrist with a frightened intensity. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she never took them off the pair of sharks, flinching slightly as Jack pulled her up to the rope with him. Glancing upward, they saw the crew bent over the railing, awestruck looks upon their faces - all except for Gibbs, who looked annoyed, yet proud.  
  
"All right there, Cap'n?" he called down.  
  
Jack laughed dryly. "Pull us up, Gibbs." 


	8. Dry Clothes

Ryenne sat on deck shivering, though not entirely from cold. A warm woolen blanket had been draped about her shoulders and she'd been led to a comfortable place to sit, but after that, she'd seemingly been forgotten. The crew had gathered around Jack, congratulating him and slapping him on the back as if he were some sort of hero, until he'd shouted for someone to fetch him some bandages and everyone else get back to work. Now, only young Quinn noticed her, inquiring politely as to how she was, and did she need anything? She brushed him away with a wave of her hand and got up to move to where Jack was sitting, haphazardly wrapping his bleeding hands in gauze and not even looking up as she sat down across from him. The gauze fell from his hands and he cursed, bending to pick it up. She reached it first.  
  
"Need any help?" she asked, handing it back to him with a half-smile. He merely shook his head and continued to wrap the angry red wounds. She sighed and indicated them with a small gesture. "You should clean those first, you know."  
  
"Hmph." He grumbled under his breath. "My pistol and my best knife!"  
  
"What?"  
  
He glared at her. "I said, I just lost my pistol and my best knife! You should learn to be more careful!"  
  
"No one FORCED you to do that, you know." She hissed, folding her arms over her chest crossly. Jack's eyes widened considerably, and he paused in his work.  
  
"Are you chastising me for SAVING you!?" he demanded incredulously, throwing his hands up in the air. "Oh, I thought I'd heard damn near EVERYTHING, but this-"  
  
"That's NOT what I meant!"  
  
"Then, exactly what DID you mean?" he gave her an expectant look. She cleared her throat self-consciously.  
  
"I meant...I.....well, I-" she sputtered, trying to say something that sounded meaningful. Jack snorted, irritating her fiercely. "Well, Captain Sparrow, I am certainly indebted to you." She grumbled, unable to think of anything else to say.  
  
"Damn right, you are." He stood up abruptly. "Come with me."  
  
Ryenne watched him apprehensively, wondering what he was up to, but followed as he led the way to his cabin and stopped, holding the door open for her. Recoiling from the conclusion her mind had invented, she backed away a step. Did he want compensation; and of what kind?  
  
"What do you want in THERE?" she tried desperately not to let her voice tremble. Jack looked offended.  
  
"I thought YOU might like some dry clothes." He replied with a knowing smile. "What did you THINK I wanted?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"Help yourself." He shook his head at her, his smile dampening slightly.  
  
"But, I-" Ryenne started to say, but he closed the door in her face, leaving her to find something dry to wear.  
  
Pulling open the top drawer of his bureau, she rooted through the collection of shirts, looking for the simplest one she could find. A few of them were rather ordinary white cotton things, and then there were others. She laughed, trying her best to imagine Jack wearing the salmon-colored velvet thing she held now, and decided that maybe she didn't WANT to. Finally, she found a black cotton shirt with minimal frills and lace and grabbed a pair of cream-colored breeches from another drawer.  
  
She felt strangely uneasy as she slide out of her sea-soaked clothes and into Jack's; it was as though she was connecting herself to him in some odd sort of bond. Brushing off the feeling, she worked on fastening the strange buttons on the clothing. The breeches fit well enough, she supposed, but the shirt was a little large, and she entertained a comedic vision of losing her arms in the long sleeves.  
  
Opening drawers until she found a suitable long coat, she firmly squashed her hat onto her head and glared at the rectangular mirror mounted on the wall. She then gave it a wry smile, thinking, At least now that I look like him, all the boys will be running after ME. She considered marching out there and sharing that thought with him, but grudgingly decided against it. He HAD saved her life, even if he now seemed determined to irritate her twice as much as before. She owed him, and there was nothing she could do about it until he placed his life in peril, thus conveniently giving her the opportunity to save it. Unless....he died first. Mysteriously, an innocent accident. Ryenne truly did not know how long she could stand being in debt to him, but the possibility of murder only half-heartedly considered attempting to cross her mind.  
  
Looking about his cabin, she noticed the handle of a knife slightly protruding from the underside of his writing desk. She slid it out, admiring the keenly-polished blade and serviceable ivory handle. Jack may have bemoaned the loss of his 'best' knife, but this one was just as good, at least in her opinion. She slid it surreptitiously into her right boot, all compunctions about stealing from her 'benefactor' forgotten.. or at least momentarily tossed aside. And besides, he HAD taken the one Mr. Gibbs had so kindly given her.  
  
Tugging the lapels of the coat to straighten it and checking her reflection once more, she tilted her hat at a jaunty angle and strode back outside with an arrogant smile fixed upon her face.  
  
???  
  
Jack was in the lower of the crow's nests when Ryenne appeared on deck. Peering out to sea in search of the Isle, or land of any kind, he pretended not to notice her, even when she stood at the base of the mast, squinting up at him with a hand shading her eyes. She shouted something up to him; he heard, but firmly ignored her. She called again, and he had to stop himself from staring down at her in wonder. She may have had a slight build, but the woman could shout. He heard her growl in irritation as she determinedly grasped one of the ratlines that ran up parallel to the main mast and began to climb. Jack groaned. Hadn't she had enough for one day? Wasn't there some other poor sailor she could torment for now?  
  
He turned his back as she reached the crow's nest, innocently raising his copper spyglass as if he had spotted something.  
  
"Didn't you hear me?" she demanded imperiously, grabbing his shoulder and attempting to spin him around to face her. He kept his tone light as he replied, although his rough batting away of her arm openly announced his mood. She ignored it, holding onto her hat to save it from the gusting winds this far above deck.  
  
"No, I didn't. My apologies, Captain." He quickly turned back around, raising the spyglass to scan the horizon. The pitch-black sails snapped and billowed as they were caught by another gust of wind. Storm soon, though Jack to himself as Ryenne came and stood behind him.  
  
"We're probably going to have a storm soon," she said, gesturing to the taut sails and darkening water beneath them. Whitecaps were beginning to form atop the waves, whipped and foaming briskly. Jack narrowed his eyes and turned further still away from her. She looked in the direction they faced and gave a small laugh.  
  
"Jack, why are you looking for land in the direction we came from?" she asked solemnly. He harrumphed at nothing in particular, closing the glass quickly.  
  
"None of your damn business," he snapped, readying himself to climb down. Ryenne held him back and he gave her a dark look.  
  
"Wait - I just wanted to ask you something...in private."  
  
"What?" he said shortly, mentally preparing himself for more verbal abuse. He was not disappointed as she continued.  
  
"While I thank you kindly for allowing me to use of your clothes, as I was looking, I couldn't help but notice a certain....pink...shirt." she seemed to be forcefully restraining herself from laughing. He scowled.  
  
"Not mine."  
  
"Are you quite sure?" she pressed, now holding a hand to her mouth and positively shaking with mirth. "A velvet shirt, of a color I believe they call 'salmon' in the upper-class world. Lace at the wrists and neck. Of a particularly fine cut, might I add, if I'm any judge of quality."  
  
"How could YOU possibly be a judge of quality," Jack fumed, "When you have none yourself!?!?" and with that, he commenced climbing down to the deck. She followed him, her smile cruel now as she matched his pace.  
  
"I think it IS yours," she said matter-of-factly. "It only stands to reason that one so effeminate as yourself should have the appropriate apparel."  
  
He turned abruptly to her, stung and angered by her words - more than he would have liked to admit to himself.  
  
"Is that what you think?" he said softly. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him. He threw his hands in the air. "Fine. Think whatever you want, Captain Caelar. But hear me well, Ryenne. If you persist in slandering my good name among my crew and cause anything even remotely reeking of mutiny, I personally will string you up like any other common crewmember and strip the skin from your pretty little back. And I'll ENJOY it." And with that, he turned and continued walking. Ryenne's eyes widened slightly, but that was her only outward reaction.  
  
"If it's not yours," she called from behind him, "Then whose IS it?"  
  
He stopped and sighed, turning back to her.  
  
"Will's. He left it, along with a few other things, onboard after he decided to remain on land. After he was granted amnesty, he quickly developed a taste for the finer things in life. And he grew restless with the sea," he added wistfully, looking out to the open water. Damn. He hadn't meant to say that much.  
  
Ryenne took a careful step towards him.  
  
"Who is Will?" she questioned gently, and Jack glanced angrily at her, replying, "Just another figment of my imagination, same as Elizabeth." As he walked away.  
  
He paid no heed when she shouted in frustration, "So it is yours, then?" at his retreating back.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne stared crossly at the ceiling of her small cabin, thinking. He had opened up to her for a moment, of that she was sure. But why? She wondered. All she had done was bait and taunt him. When he had finally admitted to the shirt being this Will's, she had actually believed him. But something had made her press him further, and she had gotten what she justly deserved.  
  
"No!" she said aloud, voicing her thought in alarm. HE was getting what HE justly deserved, not the other way around. She shouldn't be getting pangs of guilt like this, small though they were.  
  
But that half-hearted conviction didn't stop them from coming, much to her increasing dismay. Turning her face to the wall, she repeated over and over to herself, "Everything is HIS fault. He deserves what he gets." But, try as she might, she couldn't seem to convince herself of the truth of that. 


	9. The Storm

Jack stood at the tiller of the ship, Gibbs by his side, acting as navigator. Ryenne had not spoken to him for nearly a week, let alone approach him. She stayed mostly locked in her cabin, and every time he had seen her, she had avoided his eyes and hurried away. Most peculiar - she had never shown any remorse before about anything she said, if this was what it was. Either way, he was more than grateful for the break from near- constant harassment. *Maybe I frightened her away with all that talk of a lashing,* he thought wryly, although he really HAD meant what he said. But so far, the crew had shown no signs of dissention - all were momentarily content and peaceful with the thought of their destination.  
  
"Cap'n Jack, you're two points too far south," said Gibbs respectfully, showing him the compass. Jack hauled his mind quickly out of his thoughts and corrected their direction, nodding at Gibbs.  
  
"Thank you, mate. I don't know what's come over me....can't seem to concentrate today."  
  
"D'ye want me to take over fer awhile?" Inquired Gibbs, gently pushing his unresisting captain out of the way and gripping the tiller with strong, competent hands. Jack leaned on the railing, staring out at the heavy, leaden clouds and suspiciously still water.  
  
"What do you think, Gibbs? Calm before the storm?" he asked, meaning more than he said. Gibbs nodded understanding, however, taking a quick swig from his hip flask.  
  
"Aye. And she looks to be a beauty, too." He shot a look at Jack, who straightened, a mischievous grin on his face. "How close are we to deMuerta?"  
  
A strange light was in Jack's eyes, now. "Close enough. What do you say, my trusted advisor? Shall we race her in?"  
  
Gibbs returned the grin, complete faith in his captain obvious. "That we shall, sir. That we shall."  
  
???  
  
Ryenne stumbled out onto the heaving deck, suddenly pitching sideways as the ship plunged into a trough. A hand helped her up, and she was surprised to see young Quinn. He gave her a shy smile before hurrying away, not giving her a chance to ask what was going on, or even say 'thank you'. The wind whipped her hair about her face, stinging, as she searched for Jack; there he was, standing at the tiller. Gibbs, of course, was nearby giving instructions to various crewmembers. She carefully made her way up to them, bracing herself against the wind, all hesitation about approaching Jack forgotten. He looked up as she reached the bow, an odd smile on his face. Almost as if he were....enjoying...the storm.  
  
"What are you doing!?" Ryenne shouted, her voice nearly swallowed by the gale. "You could have sailed around this! You KNEW it was coming!"  
  
"Yes, I did!" He shouted back, nodding enthusiastically, eyes straight ahead.  
  
"SO WHAT ARE YOU DOING, THEN!?" when he didn't answer immediately, she tried to hear what Gibbs was yelling to the crew. Flustered, she turned back to Jack.  
  
"Did he really just say what I thought I heard him say?!?" Jack gave her an amused look.  
  
"What do you think you just heard him say?"  
  
"Well, I could have sworn he just told that crewman to 'pile on every bloody scrap of canvas we could conjure up'!"  
  
"Then you were right," he replied, still sounding amused. Ryenne, however, was nearly beside herself in agitation.  
  
"But, why? We should be reefing the sails, not adding to them! We'll capsize, or the mast will break, or....or...." she trailed off into angry silence. Jack pointed ahead in the direction they were heading.  
  
"What do you see up there?" he asked. Ryenne decided that he was definitely somewhat crazed, but indulged him anyway.  
  
"Land. What else would there be..." she suddenly realized what she was seeing. "LAND!?!" IT also occurred to her that they were going rather quickly - too quickly, in fact, to be able to safely stop before they crashed into the craggy cliffs jutting out of the water not too far away. She yelped, trying to grab the tiller away from Jack. He fought her off, yelling for her to stop.  
  
"Jack, you imbecile!" she lost all sense of reason, laying him a hard blow across the cheek, which he took with admirable grace. Or, at least she was sure that - had he wanted to - he could have shoved her back much further. As it was, the wind was knocked out of her as she lost her balance and slammed into the deck. She looked up to find the cliffs towering above them and scrunched her eyes shut, fully expecting to hear the sickening grinding crunch of timber upon rocks. She waited a few moments...and then a few more...and didn't hear a sound. Even the wind seemed to have quieted. Ryenne didn't open her eyes but softly said aloud, "Am - am I dead?"  
  
"Unfortunately, no," said a wry voice as she was roughly hauled to her feet. Jack stood in front of her, rubbing a blossoming purple bruise on his cheek and eyeing her ruefully. "Although you certainly deserve to be."  
  
"You should be more careful, then." She said tartly, stepping away from him and looking about. She could see now that instead of the cliffs being one unbroken wall - as she had thought - one side was actually placed slightly further back than the other, thus effectively concealing the entrance to the small cove they now sat in. It was littered with the skeletal remains of shipwrecked vessels, spars and hulls broken and decaying. She peered over the side. In the azure water below them, shot with broken shafts of sunlight, she could see scores of hammerhead sharks lazily swimming about even more sunken ships. She shuddered, remembering her own encounter with these vicious creatures.  
  
"Nice. Very nice. And where are we, exactly?" she snapped at Jack, who had joined her at the rail. He took a deep breath as if savoring the smell of the salty air.  
  
"My island. The most wonderful place in the entire Caribbean."  
  
"Which is....?" she prompted him. Then it dawned. "Oh no. Don't tell me. We're at the Isla deMuerta, aren't we?"  
  
"But, of course; where else would we be?"  
  
???  
  
Jack gave up the duty of supervising the lowering of the rowboats to Gibbs, being far too anxious to reach the shore to stay on board the ship any longer. Leaping into the first boat quickly, he shouted the order for the crew to continue without him. He was about to push off, when suddenly the boat rocked violently, nearly capsizing. He turned, furious, to see what had caused it - to find Ryenne grinning at him.  
  
"You didn't think you were going without me, did you, Captain?"  
  
Jack sighed, tossing an oar to her. "If I told you I'd hoped to, it wouldn't make a difference, would it?"  
  
She thought for a minute, then shook her head. "No, I expect not." Jack sighed again, motioning for them to begin rowing in unison to the gaping hole of a small channel leading straight into the heart of the island.  
  
"In...there?" Ryenne asked timidly, nodding to the dark passage. He nodded in return, a wide grin spreading quickly across his face. Shaking her head uncertainly, she tried to reason with him. "But....we don't even have a lantern.."  
  
"I know it all by heart, love." He tapped his temple confidently.  
  
"Don't call me that," she hissed. But she picked up the paddle anyway and began rowing right alongside him.  
  
Heavy, wet fronds of hanging seaweed trailed down across the channel entrance, and they had to duck it. Ryenne thought she saw something gold glinting at the bottom when she ducked her head, but as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, swept away by the slow current. *Gold?* she wondered curiously, but then dismissed it as just a trick of the light. A nagging doubt remained in her mind, however.  
  
Jack maneuvered the rowboat easily, though Ryenne had to point out a few crags of rock impeding their path, narrowly missing them as they rowed along.  
  
"Know it by heart, do you?" she scoffed, turning to face him with a calculating glare. "Why are we here, Jack? A few meager chestfuls of gold? Honestly, is a trip to the middle of nowhere really worth-" her voice died in her throat as the narrow passageway opened out into a monstrous cavern. The presence of gold was palpable. As the rowboat ground into the edge of a small embankment, she jumped out, never minding the water that splashed her boots and trousers. She scrambled to the top and stopped short, gasping.  
  
She had never seen so much gold in her entire life.  
  
"Like it, do you?" said Jack behind her, self-righteousness and mirth clearly vying for superiority in his tone. Her mouth worked silently for a few moments before she could say anything.  
  
"I....it....I mean....ALL THIS IS YOURS!?!?"  
  
"Down to the last farthing, yes."  
  
"I..I....I..." Ryenne searched for words, finding none.  
  
"Speechless?" mirth got the better part of him, and he laughed throatily, patting her on the back.  
  
"All...all..all yours?"  
  
"I did say that, didn't I?"  
  
"Huh....DID you!?" she examined a mountain of golden goblets, running her fingers over the air above them, afraid to touch them for fear they would vanish. "Is it..real?"  
  
In answer, he grabbed a handful of coins and tossed them at her. She caught one, but another hit her in the forehead.  
  
"Ow!" she exclaimed, irritably rubbing the spot. Then she stopped, an expression of glee on her face. "They ARE real!" Jack only shook his head in mock sadness.  
  
"Well, load up," he said, smiling good-naturedly as the rest of the crew arrived in the cavern. "We need enough to last us awhile, and for some supplies." He began to walk away, but Ryenne caught him by the arm.  
  
"Jack, may I-"  
  
He nodded slowly. "Yes, Captain, help yourself."  
  
Too overcome with gratitude for words, Ryenne rushed at him, throwing her arms around him in an ecstatic hug. He tensed, completely shocked, and a nervous cough escaped his throat as he patted her on the head awkwardly. She seemed to realize what she was doing in mid-embrace and froze completely mortified. Stuttering an apology, she slowly backed away and set her mind to the difficult, but disgustingly pleasurable task of choosing from amongst the huge piles of gold.  
  
Jack watched her go, remarking to Gibbs, who had come up beside him, "How long do you think it's been since she's had gold in her pocket?"  
  
Gibbs looked at her among the gold, a benevolent smile upon his craggy face. "A long time, Cap'n. A very long time." 


	10. Cursed Gold

Ryenne meticulously examined a jeweled goblet, running her fingers over the pea-sized rubies and emeralds encrusted into the smooth surface. It was beautiful, yes, but she discarded it nonetheless. That sort of treasure would be sure to attract unwanted attention, were she to barter it for the supplies they needed. Her pockets were mostly filled with ordinary gold coins - the most useful and familiar to her - but she did wear a diamond ring the size of a wren's egg on her left thumb, unable to resist it.  
  
Wandering through the heaps, she was reminded of a maze, and decided somewhat suddenly to find the middle of it all. Something told her there was a prize to be had.....if she could just reach the center. And, hemmed in by all of the gold, she nonetheless felt more free than she ever had in her entire life. A song sang in her heart, pulling her feet further and further in - she almost imagined she could feel small hands pushing her along, so faultless were her steps.  
  
Jack wandered away from separating an argument between two crewmen, drawn - as he always was whenever they returned to deMuerta - to the center of the small underground island that housed all of this opulent wealth. To the medium-sized, nondescript chest that stood on a raised bit of land, remarkably plain amidst all the splendor; a normal piece of treasure, save for the accursed gold inside it.  
  
Flipping a gold coin into the air, he caught it casually and glanced up at the chest, sitting on its small mountain of treasure. His heart lurched suddenly as his eyes fell upon it, and he waved his arms frantically, rushing up the incline: Ryenne was about to open the lid!  
  
"No! No! Don't, Ryenne!" he shouted, stumbling slightly on rock-like jewels. She paused, gazing at him with innocently wide and curious eyes. "What do you think you're doing!?"  
  
Her eyes darted to the chest and then fixed back on him, confused. "But, you said that I could-"  
  
"Not THIS chest!" he panted, tapping it with his index finger. "Anything, save for THIS chest!"  
  
Her eyes narrowed, but she removed her hands from the lid. "Why not?" her voice was pouty and suspicious. Sighing heavily, Jack waved away the question and turned from her.  
  
"Not THIS chest; it's dangerous."  
  
Ryenne nodded, gazing dejectedly at it. Her fingers ached to open it; to find what lay beneath the heavy stone lid. As Jack spun around and trudged away - as though he were suddenly very weary - she gently traced the curious engravings in the stone. They had a definite Aztec air to them. Was this an ancient treasure of some kind? She relished the thought. The gold of ancient kings and empires lying below her fingers, just within her reach........and she was forbidden to touch it.  
  
*Just one look...he'll never know...* said a small voice in the corner of her mind. She turned it over and over in her head. What harm could one small peek do? *None at all.....but still...* Jack was trusting her. She drew her hand away slowly, rubbing her fingertips where they'd touched the cold stone.  
  
"Open it..." a voice whispered in her ear. Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder: there was no one there. A hesitant glance over her other shoulder told her the same thing. "Open it...." the voice repeated, chanting to her and multiplying itself until it became a chorus of whispering, tempting voices. Her hand stretched out in front of her - almost as though she no longer controlled it - and rested once more on the chest. All around her, the voices grew louder, rising to a crescendo of tumultuous glee. She pushed slightly on the lid. It moved easily, so she pushed a little more, only intending to peek at the contents. With an oddly- muffled thump, it fell completely off, and she stared in awe at the hundreds of skull-and-crossbones-shaped pieces of gold. They were all the same; all glinted dully up at her in the collective refracted light of the cavern. She ran her hand through them, wholly entranced by their rich heaviness. She couldn't help it: stealthily, she plucked one out of the chest and deposited it in a pocket.  
  
Suddenly, overwhelming guilt and fear crashed upon her like a tidal wave. Realizing that she had knelt unknowingly, she jumped to her feet, grabbing the fallen chest cover. It seemed ridiculously heavy now; how had she gotten it off without everyone hearing the crash? Straining, she finally got it properly situated and turned, scrambling down the pile until she was once more safely among the anonymity of the gold that now seemed so characterless compared to what she had just seen.  
  
???  
  
Jack leaned into the firelight, turning a golden plate over in his hands and smiling contentedly at the warm light that reflected off its polished surface. The sounds of his crew settling and building their own fires echoed in the cavern, muffling the steady sound of water dripping from stalactites on the cave's ceiling. For a moment, all the world seemed as thought it were in a right place....and then he realized that Ryenne was nowhere to be seen. Sighing heavily, he climbed to his feet to search for her in the semi-gloom of the caves. The sun had long-since set, and it would be easy enough for her to get lost, especially since she was unfamiliar with deMuerta. Gibbs called to him from his spot next to the campfire, where he was examining a jeweled silver flask.  
  
"Where ye off to, Cap'n?"  
  
Jack tossed his golden plate to Gibbs. "Hold that. I'm off to find Caelar."  
  
Gibbs laughed, smiling knowingly. "Lost the little tripe, did ye?"  
  
"Hmph," Jack replied, disappearing around the side of a pile of treasure. "I'll be back shortly."  
  
Beyond the open area, dotted with the fires of the crew, the cavern was dark and nearly silent, the only sound being the staccato dripping of water and....he paused, listening carefully. Up ahead, the stream had separated, carving two dark tunnels that led out to the sea. But in doing so, the right tunnel had opened up in a natural cave in the rock a bit further in - he had gone there often when the desire to be alone had come upon him. Moving forward nearly silently, he stopped outside the cave opening, the ankle-deep water flowing slowly around his boots. Yes - there was someone in there, pacing back and forth restlessly. And he had no doubts as to who it was.  
  
"Ryenne?" he called softly. "Are you lost?"  
  
Her head jerked towards the sound, her eyes widening uncertainly.  
  
"Me?" her voice quavered, making her sound nothing like herself. She seemed to notice it, and cleared her throat, trying to hide her apparent apprehension. "No, I'm not lost, I just....well...."  
  
*She's hiding something,* he thought suspiciously, taking a few slow steps towards her. She raised her chin defiantly and glared at him, daring him to come any closer. He could tell, however, that she was strongly fighting the impulse to run from him. And if she did....this cave went back a long ways, circling and looping back on itself around the island. It was a natural deathtrap, and of all those there, he was the only one who knew the way through to where it came out on the opposite side of the island. He held up his hands placatingly.  
  
"It doesn't matter." Oh, why was he doing this? It would practically be a godsend if she got herself lost and was left behind! "Just come back to the fires. You don't have to eat, if you don't want to, just stay near everyone else. You don't know what lurks back here in the dark."  
  
"Do YOU?" she retorted quickly. But she stepped ahead of him anyway and made her way carefully out of the cave and back towards the camp. He heaved a grateful sigh of relief and followed.  
  
Splashes of moonlight played across the path, seeping through small - and gaping - holed in the rock ceiling of the cave, effectively creating natural skylights. The moonlight brought back many memories; memories of the carved stone chest...of Will, and Elizabeth...and of monsters. Letting out his breath with a whoosh - he hadn't even noticed he'd been holding it - he glanced up at Ryenne...and cried out in alarm. Stumbling backwards, his foot slipped on a rock and he toppled into the shallow stream, where he stared at her in horror. She turned back, confused, and he took her appearance in completely.  
  
Rotting desiccated flesh. That was what registered first. As if she had been dead for months, her clothes were rotting and moldering, hanging in damp rags on her quite literally skeletal form. Her usually full black hair now straggled its way down her shoulders, and her honey-amber eyes were bloodshot and runny-looking. Jack felt faint, his breathing low and ragged: this was too much like before.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne cocked her head at Jack, utterly mystified at his terrified expression, and walked back over to him, shaking her head exasperatedly. Still staring at her, wide-eyed, he shuffled backward through the shallow water with every step she took.  
  
"What's the matter, Captain?" she asked, becoming thoroughly worried at his behavior. Finally managing to get within arm's length of him, she stretched a hand out to help him to his feet. "You look like you've seen a - a -...ghost..." She whispered the last word, staring at her hand in shock. What was going on? She screamed, high and shrill, the piercing sound bouncing off the walls and throwing itself back at them, magnified tenfold. It was a sharp counterpart to the mocking laughter in her mind. She still held her hand outstretched in front of her, and she turned it over, her mind registering the gray flesh clinging to the pearly bones and the exposed yellowed tendons.  
  
She turned, eyes wide, to Jack, to find that he had collected himself and was advancing slowly toward her. Panicking, the notion that he was coming to kill her flashing through her mind, she did the only reasonable thing that occurred to her: she ran.  
  
???  
  
Jack saw Ryenne tense, and was not all-together surprised when she turned tail and fled from him. Springing into hot pursuit, he realized - with no small amount of horror - that she was cutting a path directly toward where the rest of the crew was camped. Not-so-distant memories of Barbossa and his crew of miscreants haunted Jack as he watched Ryenne run in and out of patches of moonlight, changing from human to skeletal with every touch of the dusty light. He picked up his pace, somehow still remaining several feet behind her. *Damn, she's fast,* he thought, continuing undaunted, though he was becoming severely winded.  
  
Ryenne had now reached the open area where the crew was camped, singing, laughing and eating around small cook fires. She began zigzagging through them, and silence spread from one side of the cavern to the other as they watched her pass, eyes wide and mouths open in startled horror. As Jack passed his own fire, Gibbs - still holding the golden plate - tried to stop him.  
  
"Jack-"  
  
"No...time....now....Gibbs....Ryenne....got...to.." he panted, speeding by. At the far edge of the cavern, Ryenne made a sharp right into a shadowed corner. *Damn,* he thought wildly. That way led to a steep, seemingly bottomless drop off. He didn't even know if there was water down there.  
  
Skidding around the corner, he found somewhere deep within himself a sudden burst of speed. Making a desperate gamble, he leapt straight at Ryenne, who had just entered a large patch of deceptively deep shadow. He caught her about the waist and they rolled over and over in a tumble of arms and legs as she struggled tooth and nail to get away from him.  
  
"No! Don't touch me!" she shouted as he slammed her roughly onto her back, throwing her arms up to cover her face from view. "I'm HIDEOUS! I'm - .....what are you DOING!?" she flinched away as he began to run his hands frantically over the front of her coat, searching for something.  
  
"Where IS it!?" he spat angrily, throwing open her coat and feeling about her waist. "I KNOW you have it, you damn girl!"  
  
"Have WHAT!?" she shouted - though she knew perfectly well what he was talking about - and pulled her coat around herself once more, feeling somewhat violated. He leapt to his feet, pointing at her threateningly.  
  
"You'd better produce that coin, or I will search EVERY INCH of you until I find it!" he growled, jabbing his finger at her, as if to exclamate the statement. She blushed furiously, glaring at him and tugging the coat further still around herself.  
  
"Very well, then." He pounced on her, patting the sides of her coat, trying to feel the familiar shape of the Aztec coin, and dodging her flying fists. It must've been hidden in an interior pocket, as he couldn't seem to find it. That was no problem, he knew his own coat well enough to find it soon enough. Prying Ryenne's hands away so he could search the inner pockets, he gasped as her foot connected with his shin. Swearing a long, loud oath, he fell backward and rubbed it furiously. He could hear Ryenne climbing to her feet and swore once more as something small and solid struck him in the chest. A shiver ran down his spine as he picked it up, realizing that it was the coin he was looking for and clenching his fist around it.  
  
"I thought I TOLD you NOT to touch THAT chest!" he shouted angrily, grabbing her upper arm and staring into her mutinous glare unwaveringly. She tried to wriggle away, but his grip was too strong. She settled for an annoying dead-weight sort of acceptance of this, instead, her expression hiding (she hoped) the tumultuous knot of fear gnawing away in the pit of her stomach. He returned the glare evenly, though, and against her will, her eyes dropped to the ground.  
  
"I'll do what I like," she said sulkily. Jack didn't respond for a moment, and she could practically feel his glare burning into her. When he finally moved, he did so so quickly that she had no time to think before she was being pulled bodily along by her arm. He finally stopped at the edge of a small pool lying in a clear patch of moonlight, shoving her head down so she could see herself. She recoiled instantly from the hideous visage staring back at her, but he held her there.  
  
"So, you like THIS?" his voice was a forced calm, the anger running audibly beneath the surface. Ryenne closed her eyes in shame, turning her face away. He let her stand, but still held onto her arm, effectively preventing her from running. His voice did not change from the flat tone it had held before as he continued. "Did it ever occur to you that PERHAPS I had a REASON for forbidding you to touch that chest? It's cursed; in case you didn't notice, NO ONE else went near it. Except for you. The great Captain Ryenne Caelar, who's incapable of following directions, even when they're for her own good. ESPECIALLY when they're for her own good," he added as an afterthought. "And now, you're cursed, too." 


	11. Blood Ritual

"Cursed?" Ryenne repeated incredulously, trying to laugh but only producing a pitiful choking noise. She really wanted nothing more than to start sobbing. "But....curses aren't real! This is just some horrible kind of nightmare!"  
  
Jack snorted, glancing at her reflection disgustedly. "A nightmare? You won't be getting off so easy....Look at yourself, Ryenne! Just look, and tell me again that curses aren't real! You can't do it, can you?"  
  
"This is horrible..." She whispered to herself, staring at the mutilated face in the water and raising a hand to her cheek. Jack laughed mirthlessly. She rounded on him, her rotting lips pressed into a deep frown. "I hate you." She growled, trying to wrench her arm away once more, but to no avail.  
  
Jack smiled somewhat cruelly, a look of mock surprise on his face. "Why, love? This is all YOUR doing, not mine." Ryenne knew exactly what he was thinking. *I told you so...* Opening her mouth to argue, she couldn't think of anything to say; there was nothing she COULD say. Like it or not, Jack was right. Gesturing instead to her murky reflection, she cleared her throat, trying - and failing miserably - to keep her voice steady and emotionless.  
  
"How-how long am I going to be....like this?" her voice cracked as she tried to speak, despite the lump forming in her throat. *You are NOT going to cry,* she thought fiercely. *Not here; not now.* She looked up to see Jack gazing at her thoughtfully, and repeated her question. "How long?"  
  
"Well...it all depends," he answered slowly, not meeting her eyes all of a sudden. "You COULD be like this for a very long time-"  
  
"Oh, god!" Against her will, Ryenne felt crumble, unable to contain herself any longer. Wretched, dry sobs wracked her body as she buried her face in her skeletal hands, her shoulders shaking convulsively. "I'm going to be this....this...MONSTER forever!" she struck the surface of the water, trying to wipe away the horrid reflection. *Stop crying!* she thought angrily, but - try as she might - she COULDN'T stop.  
  
"You don't know how odd it is to see a skeleton crying." Jack mused, retreating a few steps when she turned her bloodshot, tear-stained glare on him.  
  
"You-you think all of this is FUNNY!?" she demanded between sobs, picking up a rock and hurling it at him. He dodged it easily, holding his hands up disarmingly.  
  
"Oh, stop it, you damn girl! You didn't let me finish!" he chided, pulling her to her feet once more. "You're not going to be like THAT forever." He gestured to her.  
  
"I'm not?" she demanded suspiciously.  
  
"No. Unless, of course, that is what you want. It's actually a very slimming look for you." He joked. Her responding expression was somewhat less than amused. In fact, she was contemplating where or not it would be benefiting to her to strangle him that very moment. Unaware - or uncaring - that his safety was at risk, Jack grabbed Ryenne's arm and pulled her out of the moonlight.  
  
She gasped as her arm filled out again, returning to its natural state, and looked up at Jack, overjoyed. "Am I...?"  
  
"Hardly." He replied bitterly, all humor apparently dissipated from his mood. "You've caused plenty of trouble, but it can be fixed simply enough, if you cooperate." Not reacting to her raised eyebrows, he continued to pull her along by her wrist, despite her weak protests.  
  
"Where are we going?" she demanded, trotting unwillingly behind him as he half-dragged her through the maze of treasure heaps. He didn't reply, taking a sharp turn to the left and stopping abruptly; they stood in front of the stone chest once more.  
  
"Does that answer your question?"  
  
Ryenne stared up at the chest, suddenly rooted to the spot. For the life of her, she couldn't understand what had drawn her to this awful chest in the first place; she wanted nothing more than to put as much space as possible between it and herself. Glancing at Jack, she saw his grim, but determined expression and something inside her told her she should be afraid. She couldn't argue with THAT.  
  
"Why are we here?"  
  
He didn't look at her, but flipped the cursed coin into the air and caught it with a nimble flick of his wrist. "We've got to put this back."  
  
"Is that all I have to do?" she asked hopefully. "To become.....not...cursed?"  
  
"Hmph," he snorted irritably. "Don't be ridiculous!"  
  
Ryenne's heart jumped into her throat and she swallowed nervously, trying to force it back down. "Then-then, how do I-"  
  
Jack led her up the hill to the chest, never letting go of her wrist. It was obvious he feared she would try to run away again, once she found out what was going on. Tugging her roughly by the arm, he stopped suddenly, kicking the chest open. Sighing irritably, he finally met her gaze, his eyes somewhat sympathetic.  
  
"The blood sacrifice."  
  
"Blood WHAT!?" she gasped as he picked up a rough, yellowed dagger, staring at it with a decidedly resolute air. Latching onto his wrist, she tried to jerk out his grasp. He merely grunted, forcing her hand open and pressing the coin into it. She continued to fight him, considering biting his hand - as she'd done once before.  
  
"Cut that out, you silly girl!" he shouted crossly, dodging a sharp blow that would've struck his chin. "You're making this harder than it should be!"  
  
Ryenne sucked her breath in through her clenched teeth as he caught her other arm in a vise-like grip. "Oh, and I suppose killing me should be a piece of cake, eh?" she spat, fixing a deadly glare up him.  
  
"You assume too much." He replied smoothly.  
  
As she felt the jagged blade pierce her skin, she lost all will to fight, and - for the first time in her entire life - Ryenne fainted.  
  
???  
  
"Oof!" Jack grunted, catching Ryenne quickly before she landed on the rough surface of the ground and grabbing her bleeding hand, closing it around the coin. Pressing her fingers tight into a fist for a moment, he held his breath as the cursed gold coin dropped back into the chest with a metallic clinking, sighing wearily. Lying her gently on the ground for a moment, he hefted the heavy stone lid back onto the chest, shoving it firmly into place.  
  
"There," he whispered as an invisible breeze swept throughout the cavern, making the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. A few echoing footsteps sounded behind him, and he knew who it was without even looking around. "Everything is alright, Gibbs."  
  
His first mate stood at the foot of the small knoll on which the Aztec chest sat, a bewildered look on his face. "She alright, Cap'n?" he gestured to Ryenne's prostrate form, and Jack nodded solemnly in reply.  
  
"Fine; she's fine. She's just fainted, that's all....." he knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face and checking her breathing. *It's normal, thank god.* he thought to himself, relieved, though he had no idea why. Placing a gentle hand under her back, he lifted her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. Angry though his was with her, he couldn't help but pity her. She'd lost her ship, her title, her honor.....and very nearly her life within a mere few weeks. In fact, her situation was much like his had been, though compacted into a smaller span of time.  
  
"Are YOU alright, Cap'n?" Gibbs asked hesitantly, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Jack trudged unhurriedly down the hill, a strange look on his face. "I suppose you could say that, Gibbs....yes..."  
  
??? 


	12. Tyrus

*Disclaimer: Nothing, we own nothing. Don't ask...it's depressing..*  
  
*Author's Note: this chapter is a little on the risk-ay side (no Jack/Ryenne action, trust us) so, be careful..  
  
**  
  
"Ah, the great Captain Caelar!" Tyrus chuckled, closing the door behind him with a sharp snap.  
  
"Why are you here, Tyrus?" Ryenne demanded, taking her face out of her hands and looking up from the rough table she'd been glaring at dejectedly. "Come to ridicule me a bit more?"  
  
"Why would you think that, Captain?" his replied, his mocking use of her title grating on her nerves. Sauntering over to her with an arrogant smile on his face, he perched on the edge of the table and she jumped to her feet, eyeing him warily as she began to back away. He stood as well, taking a step toward her for every one she took away from him, closing the distance between them rapidly. "You act as though WE are heathens, and YOU are god!"  
  
"Mutinous heathens," she corrected tartly as her back slammed into the wall. Still he advanced. "And, I am your CAPTAIN, not your god!"  
  
"A Woman is unbefitting to be captain." He put his hands on the wall on either side of her, preventing her from easily escaping.  
  
"Don't touch me!" she tried unsuccessfully to shove him away, but he was stronger than she was. Before she could think, his hand had shot out, dealing her a blow with enough force to split her lip. Golden stars danced before her vision, and her knees buckled; the power would've sent her reeling, had he not been holding her up. She put her fingers to her lips gently, gasping when they came away with blood on them. Tyrus batted her hand away, snatching her face in a vise-like grip, leaning toward her and making the stench of liquor on his breath almost overpowering.  
  
"Women are only good for one thing," he drawled, looking her up and down with a suggestive grin.  
  
"You're not getting THAT from me, Tyrus." She said evenly, though his grip tightened with every syllable.  
  
"Oh, aren't I?" he snickered, pulling her face into his. Despite her struggling, their lips met, his forcing hers apart as he slid his tongue into her mouth. Bile rushed into her throat, and - gagging wildly - she tore away, trying to duck under one of his muscular arms. Grabbing her arm in a movement so quick she couldn't begin to fathom it, he threw her onto the bed, almost causing her to roll off the other side with momentum. Climbing to her feet, she collected herself as best she could, fighting her roiling stomach, and prepared for another damaging blow.  
  
"Stop this, Tyrus!" she shouted, fumbling around her belt for her dagger and realizing - a moment too late - that she no longer had it. Scanning the room quickly, she searched for something - anything - that could be used as a weapon, and found......only a piece of rope. Picking it up nonetheless, she coiled it around her hands and tried to look somewhat threatening. Tyrus - who was slowly advancing on her once more - laughed cruelly.  
  
"Going to fight me, are you?" he snickered, making Ryenne feel rather pathetic indeed. How would she ever fight him off with a mere length of rope? "Just give up, Caelar. You can't win."  
  
That struck a note on her pride. "Never!" Drawing her arm back, she used the rope as though it were a whip, whirling it around and bringing it down across Tyrus's broad shoulders. As a weapon, it was more irritating than truly painful; not the sort she needed right now. He snatched up the end as it snapped by his shoulders once more and ripped it from her grasp, shoving her backward onto the bed again. The impact sent the wind from her lungs with a whoosh, giving time for Tyrus to render her helpless as she gasped for breath.  
  
Pinning her wrists above her head with one arm, he knotted the rope firmly around them, securing it to the headboard of the bed and making her arms completely useless to her. With a flick of his wrist, he drew his dagger, brandishing the steel blade at her dangerously. She closed her eyes, taking a deep - yet quavering - breath, and opened them once more.  
  
"Kill me, Tyrus, if you have any dignity at all."  
  
Laughing once in his throat, his lip curled into a sneer, but he did not reply. Slicing the worn blue fabric of her shirt open with one easy stroke, he ran the point of the blade down her chest tauntingly - from her collarbone to her navel - and grinned suggestively once again. Twisting away disgustedly, she lashed out with her foot, her face going scarlet with anger and embarrassment. His reflexes - unfortunately - were more finely tuned than hers, and he caught her ankle inches from his chest, twisting it until she cried out in pain.  
  
"Stop wriggling, you silly girl." His drawl was back. "You're making this harder than it should be!"  
  
"No," she whispered, attempting hysterically to wrench her wrists free. "No!"  
  
"Ryenne, stop! Calm down!" a voice commanded, shaking her shoulders roughly. Eyes snapping open, her hand shot out and caught the speaker hard across the face, to which they responded with a muffled string of curses. Struggling to get her vision to focus, she sat up - clutching her head - to see Jack sitting a few feet away, cupping a hand over his nose and swearing furiously. The realization of what must've happened hit her, and she gasped, stuttering an apology.  
  
"Jack, I'm sorry - I didn't - I mean, I-"  
  
"Calm down!" he snapped, checking his nose to make sure it wasn't bleeding and glaring at her irritably. "What's gotten into you all of a sudden?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
He raised his eyebrows at her, continuing to rub his nose. "You were just thrashing about, like the Devil himself had come for you. I tried to wake you and you kicked me in the ribs, then nearly broke my nose!"  
  
"I - um....." Ryenne lowered her eyes apologetically. "I was having a nightmare." More like a bad memory she WISHED was a nightmare.  
  
"Ah, I see...." Jack's tone changed suddenly, and he looked somewhat anxious. "I had nightmares, too, after I - .....well, if you.....er....well..." she cocked her head at him. Was he trying to comfort her?  
  
"I'm fine." She interjected, standing up quickly. "I just need a bit of fresh air, that's all." Suddenly aware that half the crew was watching her, she felt tremendously uneasy. That, and she didn't need Jack - of all people - to be comforting her. As though they could read her thoughts, they looked away abruptly as they realized that she'd noticed their curiosity. Nodding curtly to Jack, she turned on her heel, set to find a bit of open air where she could clear her head.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne sat on a rocky plateau overlooking the sea, and let her legs dangle over the edge. It was no courageous thing, as the ledge she sat on stood only 7 or 8 feet above the surface of the water. The cool ocean breeze blew rough grains of salt and sand into her face and hair, but she relished it nonetheless, trying to banish the sour memories from her mind. Searching for something pleasant to think about, she found ONLY bad memories; not worth remembering at all.  
  
The quiet sound of feet on rock echoed behind her, announcing the presence of an unwanted visitor. Glancing angrily over her shoulder, she saw Jack standing a mere few feet behind her - a blank look on his face - and turned back to the sea once more, not surprised to see it was him.  
  
"Go away, Jack." She mumbled, leaning her elbows on her knees.  
  
"Who is Tyrus?" he asked, his voice as emotionless as his face.  
  
Caught off-guard by his question, Ryenne was silent for a moment. Then, she sighed. "Someone I'm trying to forget." She didn't look at him, and he took a step closer. The muscles in her back tensed, but he didn't' lay a hand on her. "How do you know his name?" she asked flatly. She could feel his eyes upon her, and shrugged uncomfortably.  
  
"You screamed his name three or four times, after you fainted." He finally said, then added wryly, "And shortly thereafter, you tried to break my nose."  
  
"I already apologized for that, so don't expect me to again," she said sullenly, wishing he would go away. Her uncertainty only served to make her more irritable.  
  
Jack's voice was somber, though Ryenne could sense a telltale hint of curiosity hiding behind that. "He must have done something horrible to make you act in such a way......." Ryenne furrowed her eyebrows, glaring into the shadowy water below, and sighed, wondering whether or not to answer such a personal question. A moment of tense silence sat between them - so thick it could've easily been cut through with a knife - and she sighed once more.  
  
"Yes." The answer was lacking any true conviction, and it was obvious that if left Jack disappointed - not that she cared much about THAT. A few more minutes passed, neither moving nor speaking. Finally, Ryenne twisted around to glare at him again.  
  
"Why are you still here?"  
  
He evaded her question, looking - instead - up at the glittering stars. The moon was close to the horizon, and the light flowed in long, broken shafts across the water.  
  
"Beautiful night."  
  
"Yes, and it would be even more beautiful if I were allowed to be by myself."  
  
He appeared unaffected by this. "Snappy, aren't we?"  
  
"I have every right to be!"  
  
"Why won't you tell me what Tyrus did to you?"  
  
"Because it's none of your damn business!"  
  
"So?"  
  
This gave her pause, and she threw up her hands helplessly, standing and stalking past him back into the cave. She only made it as far as the entrance, however, because of what he said next.  
  
"He raped you, didn't he, Ryenne?"  
  
She stopped abruptly in the shadow of the opening, slowly turning to him. He continued. "Don't look so surprised. I've seen the way you avoid any kind of contact with anyone else. In Lee's Tavern, when you fainted -"  
  
"I did not faint." She growled. "It was the bloody rum."  
  
" - I tried to help you. I brought you upstairs to keep you away from the men there, because - pirate captain or no - a helpless woman can expect no mercy in a place like Tortuga. But when you woke, you immediately assumed that I was the one with.....less than honorable intentions."  
  
Ryenne's first reaction to this was to indignantly protest that she was hardly helpless. But she checked herself, realizing - much to her chagrin - that he was right. But it had all happened so fast, and when she had woken to find herself on a strange bed in a strange room with her coat on the floor and a man standing over her....  
  
Ryenne hugged herself, turning away from his piercing gaze.  
  
"There were more after him, weren't there?" he asked softly. But she could take no more, the memories spurred by his words, crowding her mind. Images flashed behind her eyes, her own screams of rage and helplessness echoing in her ears.  
  
"You know nothing," she choked acidly, and fled.  
  
??? 


	13. Fakes and Facades

Chapter 13  
  
Ryenne clung to the shadowy sides of the cavern as she made her way around the mostly-sleeping crew until she reached the far end. The fires were spread out far enough that, in reality, she was not very far from the nearest sailor, but it was solitude enough. She had no desire to be completely alone. Shedding her coat, she collapsed onto the ground with a thud, leaning towards the fire though she was already overwarm. Crystalline memories flooded her vision, impossible to fight off, impossible to watch. Running a hand through her sea-swept hair, she took a shaky breath and laid back, putting her arms behind her head. Wincing as she accidentally jarred her injured hand, she paused, propping herself up on one elbow and staring at the freshly-bandages she had failed to notice before. The clean, white cloth was wrapped neatly around her palm, extending slightly to cover part of her wrist. Curiously, she sat up fully, tracing her fingers over the overlapping lines of the wrapping. Finding the knot that secured them, she untied it slowly, pulling the bandages away to reveal a deep, red cut slashing across her hand. It was obvious the wound had been fully cleaned before it had been bandaged, though it still looked painful and angry. Staring at it with a grim smile on her face, Ryenne remembered her aching, broken body and winced at the phantom of old pain that still haunted her.  
  
Closing her fist protectively, she laid back down and gazed up into the shadows of the ceiling of the cave, dotted with stalactites that jutted from the surface like jagged teeth, and closed her eyes. Despite everything, she could not cry. Not again.  
  
???  
  
Jack waited a few minutes after Ryenne left the small outcropping, listening to the waves that beat gently on the rocks close below him and mulling over what he had just learned. He was beginning to see and understand the girl in a new way; slowly but surely, her odd behaviour was starting to make sense. But only starting; he didn't have any illusions of commeraderie. Just a slightly more thorough knowledge of her past. He thought back to how, when he had dared to venture his guess, her stance had changed from defensive to aggressive seemingly without her realizing, and her eyes had become guarded.  
  
Shaking his head, Jack sighed and went back inside, tracing unknowingly the same path Ryenne had taken around the border of the cavern when she had fled from him.  
  
???  
  
Gibbs looked up from the fire when his captain appeared from the shadows. He was not suprised to see that the girl was not with him; he had seen her pass by a few minutes before, trying hard not to be seen or heard by any of the crew still awake. Now, he studied Jack, trying to find some clue as to what might have happened.  
  
He found nothing. Jack's face was emotionless, a smooth mask effectively concealing his thoughts. Gibbs thought it actually rather odd; his captain was widely know for his expressiveness. But no-looking closer, he was able to see the way his shoulders were slightly hunched as he sat, and his eyes were tired. But that was it. Knowing better than to press for information, Gibbs passed him a warmed plate in the hopes that he would speak for himself. Jack took it, eating a few bites and placing it beside him. The light from the fire played across his face, turning his dark eyes to gold as he stared pensively into the fire. Finally, he spoke.  
  
"Our friend has been ill-treated, Gibbs. Very ill-treated."  
  
And then, without giving his first mate a chance to ask how or why, he turned his back to the fire and laid down, using his rolled-up coat as a pillow.  
  
???  
  
Jack was woken by morning sunlight on his face, bright and cheery and a far cry from his current disposition. Lack of sleep pressed down on him, far heavier than the blanket that someone had placed over him while he slept. *Probably Gibbs*, he thought, squinting up through the hole in the ceiling to try and gauge how early it was-around eleven o'clock. Obscenely late in the day for a pirate with the laws of sailing ingrained in him, but then, he HAD been up for most of the night. Growling, he rolled over in defiance of hte sun-and suddenly became distinctly aware of two things. First of all, there was a lot of commotion and the sound of many feet tramping back and forth across the cavern, punctuated by the clinking sounds of gold being moved; and more importanly, someone nearby was making food.  
  
It was the food that did it. Bolting upright, he searched for the source of the delicious smells-and met Ryenne's even stare. She was sitting across his fire, rebuilt from last night, frying three medium-sized fish on the back of a rectangular, ruby-encrusted sheild.  
  
"Good morning," she said cheerfully, spearing one of the fish with a silver fork and depositing it on the golden plate he had asked Gibbs to hold for him last night.  
  
"Is it indeed," he grumbled under his breath, certain the food wasn't meant for him.  
  
"This one's for you," she said, handing him the plate. "You can have another, if you want, but I do need at least one." She laughed at the way he warily eyed it, then took the offering slowly. "I didn't poison it."  
  
"No one said you had." But he still carefully examined it before beginning to eat. Between bites, he began to question her. "What are the men doing?" He was fairly certain he already knew, but he wanted to see what her response would be.  
  
"They're loading the ship with gold. Couldn't you tell?" She added with a touch of her usual asperity, which Jack ignored. "Gibbs thought they would begin without waking you-he said you needed to sleep." Jack nodded, his portion of the fish nearly finished.  
  
"Yes, I trust him." He knew very well that he could have said something else, but he refrained, with the vague feeling that it was bloody noble of him. Ryenne seemed to know, anyway, though. She fell silent, eyes downcast as she ate. The events of last night lingered unspoken between them.  
  
His stomach still grumbling and his plate empty-save for bones-Jack nodded towards the last piece of fish.  
  
"D'you want that?" She glanced at the sheild and shook her head.  
  
"No, I'm fine. You can have it."  
  
"My thanks," he mumbled, stabbing the fish and dropping it onto his plate as Ryenne nodded in acknowledgement. He studied her discreetly as she ate, wondering why she seemed so damn cheerful. It was obviously a front, but for what? *Was it what I said last night?* He thought, somewhat puzzled. She looked up suddenly and noticed him staring at her with a thoughtful expression. She smiled bemusedly.  
  
"What?" She asked, the smile taking away any bite the question might have had. Jack blinked, but didn't look away.  
  
"Are you alright, Ryenne?"  
  
Her smile disappeared completely, replaced by a suspicious look. Her voice remained neutral, however.  
  
"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
"Well....." Jack considered asking her more about this 'Tyrus', but thought better of it. Instead, he furrowed his eyebrows, motioning to her hand. "Why'd you take the bandages off?"  
  
She looked slightly guilty, rubbing the fingers of her injured hand absentmindedly and matching his gaze with a defensive glare.  
  
"Just curious, I suppose. I hadn't noticed them before."  
  
Jack snorted, somewhat annoyed by further evidence of her undaunted curiosity.  
  
"Well, curiosity killed the bloody annoying girl named Ryenne," he said tartly. Her expression didn't change, save for a slight raising of her eyebrows.  
  
"Don't you mean, 'curiosity killed the cat'?" She countered coolly.  
  
"IS that what I meant?" He replied meaningfully, bending he head to continue eating. Ryenne sighed exasperatedly.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne shrugged into her coat, carefully stepping into the rowboat and giving the treasure-packed cavern a final, parting glance. It truly was a magnificient hoarde, and even the island itself wasn't bad at all, despite the accursed chest in the heart of it. She repressed a shudder, remembering the gruesome spector the curse had made her, and glanced reflexively at her hands again. Jack-who was holding one oar and trying to hand her the other-made an impatient noise and she sat down, snatching it from him.  
  
"Why are YOU so anxious to leave? I thought this was 'the most wonderful place in the Caribbean'." She snapped as they began to row. Jack grunted unintelligeably, and for a moment Ryenne thought he wouldn't answer.  
  
"Why AREN'T you so anxious to leave?"  
  
"Should I be?"  
  
He was silent for a moment, as though calculating his answer, and she could see the muscles in his back rhythmically tense and relax as he rowed. Finally, he grunted again, as though coming to a decision.  
  
"Never mind."  
  
She narrowed her eyes, even though he wasn't facing her.  
  
"Why-"  
  
"Forget it, Captain," he interrupted, his tone clearly announcing the end of the conversation. Ryenne, however, was not done talking.  
  
"The curse brought up memories for you, didn't it?" Jack didn't respond. "Well, you can't run from them, Captain Sparrow, no matter how hard you try."  
  
Now he snorted.  
  
"An interesting statement, coming from you of all people."  
  
And Ryenne, knowing exactly what he meant, didn't press any further, much to both their suprise. 


	14. One Captain

It was a blessing to be out in the open air again. Unused to the enclosed underground caverns of deMuerta, Ryenne was afraid she'd been developing slight claustrophobia. True, the caverns had been huge enough, but she'd still had the horrible feeling of being trapped - which she hated. But she decided - completely and totally depressed by the thought - that everywhere she went, she'd still feel trapped, and - in an odd sort of way - she was.  
  
Loosely gripping the railing, she glanced over her shoulder at Jack, who was rigidly governing the tiller's movements, a grim look on his face. Three days of silence had passed between them, not because of anger: simply because it was far too awkward to speak. What was there to say? As she often did, Ryenne pondered what point she was trying to make in staying aboard the ship. Her power over the rest of the crew was a sham and she was constantly being pestered by irritated thoughts of Jack. Deny it as she might, this was not her ship and she didn't belong on it.  
  
Slowly but surely, she'd been losing sleep, and her eating patterns were becoming somewhat erratic. Often, now, was she without either one of the two, and it was draining her.  
  
"D'you need anything, Captain?" she turned slightly, not entirely surprised to see young Quinn standing before her. The lad was seemingly beginning to worry about her, every so often going out of his way to seek her out and ask how she fared. Despite herself, she'd come to take a liking to the boy.  
  
Fifteen, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, it was obvious he would have no trouble winning ladies' hearts when he was a bit older. At the moment - however - he was looking somewhat nervous and fidgety, as he often did while he was in her presence. Smiling and patting him gently on the shoulder, she shook her head.  
  
"No, thank you, Quinn lad." The boy looked somewhat deflated, but she continued on in a no-nonsense tone. "You'd better get back to your duties, or Captain Jack will have your skin." He nodded disappointedly and scurried away. She stared after him, remembering Quinn - her former first mate. He and the boy shared the name, yes, but the similarities ended there. Where young Quinn was fair-haired and light-eyed, her first mate had had a mop of dark, curly hair and eyes like pools of ink. In fact, Ryenne had found him quite dashing....in a dark, dangerous sort of way. He was unfailingly loyal o her - until the very end, that was - though he refused to be any sort of menial servant, as the boy seemed to be. His hooded eyes suggested that he was more clever than he let on, and he was very out-spoken; for this she'd chosen him as first mate......over Tyrus, the only other who'd thought himself worthy of the position.  
  
Ryenne shook her head, forcing the thought of him out of her mind. They were gone forever - like her life as a TRUE captain - never to return. She had to find something to occupy her time, and there was only one person who could truly distract her.  
  
???  
  
Jack tried not to show his surprise as Ryenne began to make a beeline toward him, trying to force his face to remain neutral. She'd avoided him completely the past three days, and now she expected him to talk to her. It was maddening to be on the same ship with her, and his patience was wearing dangerously thin. Did she expect his moods to change as swiftly as hers did?  
  
"What do YOU want?" he growled, giving the tiller a sharp jerk. She looked slightly hurt for a moment, but was quick to cover it up. Her tone was brisk, though he could sense the slight bite of annoyance hidden beneath the placidity.  
  
"Well, Captain, I was simply going to inquire as to our current destination." She crossed her arms obstinately, a gesture he was beginning to hate.  
  
"Port Royale."  
  
It was apparent that the answer was not good enough for her. "Why?" she demanded impatiently, tapping her foot on the deck.  
  
"Because we need supplies, you miserable tart, that's why!" he snapped, turning his back on her with a snort. She maneuvered around in front of him, making sure she could look him in the eye as she spoke.  
  
"Why are you always in such a temper!?" she shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Even when I attempt to do something kind for -"  
  
Jack let go of the tiller completely, throwing his hands up into the air in disgust. "When you try to do something kind for WHOM!?!? For ME!? You haven't done anything so far that could even be considered kind! Just think about it, Ryenne! What have you done-"  
  
"Well, you're not exactly a ray of sunshine yourself!" she retorted sharply. "Name one kind thing you've done for me!"  
  
"One!? ONE!? I'll give you a whole list, love-"  
  
"Do NOT call me that!!" Unbeknownst to them, Jack and Ryenne's shouting match was attracting the curious stares of the entire crew, who paused momentarily in their duties, simply to watch this battle of wills.  
  
Jack ignored her. "Firstly, love, I saved you in the tavern-"  
  
"Saved me!?" she spluttered indignantly.  
  
"Yes, I saved you!" he shouted. "Secondly, I could've killed you - as rightful punishment - when you impersonated me in the attempt to STEAL my ship!"  
  
"I didn't-"  
  
"Thirdly, I shared my treasure with you, when you deserved nothing at all-"  
  
"Fine! I take your point!" she said huffily, throwing her own hands in the air. He continued nonetheless.  
  
"I saved you from the sharks, and - not to mention - the curse," he was beginning to look quite pleased with himself, ticking his accomplishments off on his fingers one by one. "I -"  
  
She couldn't stand it any longer, and lost the short reign on her temper. Slapping him full across the face, she screamed, "Fine, you're a bloody SAINT, you bastard!" This was probably the worst mistake she had made so far. Losing all patience or self-control, Jack grabbed her wrist, dragging her roughly onto her knees.  
  
"I'm sorry!" she gasped as his grip tightened considerably, his tanned face going nearly white with rage. She was certain that at any moment, she would hear the dreadful crack of her wrist breaking. She forced herself to meet his eyes, usually a dark brown, but now mahogany-red with rage.  
  
"One word," he warned, his voice dangerously low. "Just one more word, Ryenne."  
  
"I -" she saw his eyes flash once more and her arm was twisted brutally up behind her back, sending a sharp pain through her shoulder. "Ow! Jack, you're hurting me!"  
  
"That was six words, Ryenne." He said nastily. "Six words; not one."  
  
???  
  
Ryenne sat slumped in the now-familiar cell, tears streaming slowly down her face. She was beyond hysterics, or even anger. She thought back to the last time she'd been here, the familiar sound and stench of the bilge water swirling halfheartedly back and forth across the floor. Everything had seemed so overwhelming then, too; so hopeless and huge. So unable to be dealt with. Until she had found the compass, and had been able to bargain herself to real or imagined freedom aboard this ship that she now loathed.  
  
But she had no broken compass to save her now.  
  
When she closed her eyes, she could still see Jack's face after she'd slapped him: the hurt and surprise that had briefly appeared in his eyes and then so swiftly been replaced by anger, that she could easily have believed she'd imagined it. But she knew she hadn't.  
  
And she also knew that he hated her. *He has every right to,* she thought miserably, pushing a strand of dark, straight hair out of her face. *I've been nothing but horrible to him.* She actually felt a sort of strange release in admitting this, at least to herself. She'd put up all her defenses - all her walls - to keep herself from getting hurt, and in turn, she'd hurt him. For once, she felt the full remorse of what she'd done; he'd done so much good for her sake, restrained the temper he rightfully possessed, and she spat in his face. And now, keeping her heart closed against him, she'd done herself more injury than ever before. 


	15. The Galley

DISCLAIMER: WE OWN POTC! IT IS ALL OURS! MWAHAHA....haha. Made ya look. We really own nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.  
  
Jack angrily paced back and forth through his cabin, pausing every so often to grab some heavy object and hurl it across the room. This was the LAST straw; the very last straw. Sprawling out on his bed, he wracked his brain for the perfect punishment for Ryenne. He could have her whipped? But, no; he'd never been very inclined to that sort of thing..... Drop her off at the next port they encountered? No....too easy..... Maroon her? That hadn't worked out so well on him.... Suddenly - as if by some divine inspiration (he laughed at the thought) - he had it. Snatching up his coat and hat, he flung open his door and made his way down to the brig.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne didn't bother to even look up as splashing footsteps came towards her, and a flickering lantern cast shadows on the walls around her. There was no use in it, she already knew who it was. Fiddling with a loose thread on her shirt sleeve, she kept her eyes down and remained silent; there was no way she was going to let her impudent tongue get her in more trouble than she already was in.  
  
"There will be no more of this nonsense," Jack's voice was authoritative and cold, the very sound of it making her want to curl further into herself for fear of him. "There is only one captain aboard this ship, and that captain is me." She nodded docilely, waiting for the announcement of the real punishment that awaited her. Jack raised his voice slightly, demanding a verbal response from her. "You are hereby demoted to galley worker, and are henceforth stripped of any appropriated titles that may have been bargained for."  
  
"Galley!?" Ryenne exclaimed indignantly, letting loose the reign on her tongue. "But-but, I can't even cook!" She looked up at him quickly, holding his glare. His eyes glittered dangerously.  
  
"Then, I suggest you learn." Tilting his chin up slightly, he managed to look more pompous than ever - his coat and hat added to his appearance, making him look the part - and he continued in a smug voice. "The cabin you previously occupied has been returned to the first mate. You will now be sharing a cabin with young Quinn."  
  
Her mouth dropped open in outraged shock, and she spluttered a few undistinguishable words before managing to get ahold of herself. "But, but, Quinn-"  
  
"Is of the same rank as you are, and therefore the only one you are fit to share a cabin with." He smiled maliciously.  
  
"But-"  
  
"Is there some problem with this arrangement?" his voice had gone dangerously low once more, an obvious warning. "Perhaps you would prefer remaining down here for the rest of our voyage?" he gestured expansively to the moldering, dank semi-darkness of the brig. Ryenne swallowed angrily, leashing her tongue once more.  
  
"No, sir." The words dropped like lead weights, bitter and cold. "No problem at all."  
  
"Good." He pulled the front of his hat down slightly in farewell and nodded to her. "Well, I'll leave you down here for a while, to cool your heels a bit. Good day, love."  
  
"Cool my heels?" she repeated dully. He smiled impishly and disappeared up the stairs. "COOL MY HEELS!?" she shouted after him, gripping the bars of the cell with white-knuckled intensity, and crumbled. *Calm down.....* she thought angrily, letting her shoulders droop, defeated. *It's not as if you've lost anything. The title was a farce anyway; it meant nothing, really.* But, despite her attempts to keep her temper, she was positively shaking with rage.  
  
"Cool....my....heels....." the words hissed through her clenched teeth as she threw herself back against the wall. "I cannot believe this..."  
  
???  
  
Jack was so pleased with himself, he was practically skipping across the deck to the tiller. Caelar had FINALLY been put in her place, and he would never forget the look on her face while he'd done it. Indignance mingled with anger, surprise and complete helplessness; all what she fully deserved. Whistling to himself he smiled and nodded at every crewman he passed, even pausing to stroke the feathers of Cotton's parrot.  
  
"Aye aye, Captain?" it squawked, cocking its head at Jack, who laughed humorlessly.  
  
"Not anymore, bird." It ruffled its wings at him and he backed away a step, motioning to the deck below his feet. "That wretch is the brig this very moment, stewing."  
  
"Er....ye alright, Cap'n?" Gibbs asked uncertainly, stepping up behind him with a confused look on his face. Jack's smile broadened considerably.  
  
"Never better, my good man! Never better!"  
  
"Where's the lass?"  
  
"Down in the brig." Tugging the lapels of his coat self-importantly, Jack waved a careless hand. "I'll have Quinn let her out in a few hours."  
  
Gibbs seemed unsure.  
  
"Are you sure that's wise, Captain? Especially after.....what happened last time?" he asked haltingly. Jack's smile suddenly had an edge to it.  
  
"Oh yes, it's just fine, Gibbs. She'll never, ever, get the better of me again."  
  
Gibbs turned away, scratched his jaw uneasily and mumbled under his breath, "If ye say so, Cap'n...."  
  
"I DO say so, Gibbs."  
  
???  
  
Ryenne's eyes snapped open as a soft voice called her name and the unmistakable clank of a lock being opened rang in the musty air.  
  
"Miss Caelar?" young Quinn peered nervously through the bars of the cell, the dim light making him seem paler than normal. "Are you alright?"  
  
She leaned forward, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to wipe away the traces of fatigue and tears before the boy noticed. "Fine, lad. I suppose you're here to let me out, eh?"  
  
He nodded energetically, pulling the cell door open slightly so she could see that he'd indeed unlocked it. "Yes..." his hopeful smile faded somewhat. "Captain Jack says it's time for you to start...earning your keep.... He told me to bring you up to the galley."  
  
Climbing to her feet, she sighed resignedly, brushing off her filthy trousers as best she could. "I suppose he did." Eager to get out of the brig, she readily followed Quinn up the grimy stairs to the uppermost deck. Her lungs rejoiced at the salty sea air, but she was suddenly suspicious. "Quinn, lad, weren't you supposed to take me to the galley?"  
  
The boy's cheeks flushed slightly. "Well....er.... I thought you might like some fresh air. I know I do, after spending time down in the brig, that is...."  
  
"They lock you in the brig!?" she was horrified at the thought of the scrawny young lad being locked down in the dank cell.  
  
"Oh no, Cap- er - Miss Caelar," he replied, shaking his head. "I have to clean down there sometimes."  
  
She was quite relieved. "Ah, I see."  
  
They fell into silence and she took a few deep breaths, trying to rid the rank smell of the brig from her nostrils. The weather was oddly chilly, for - despite the fact that it was December - the Caribbean usually maintained a steady, balmy temperature. Fighting the urge to let her teeth chatter as they willed, she glanced at Quinn from the corner of her eye.  
  
"Quinn, lad, what day is it?"  
  
He thought for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the wood absentmindedly. "Er.....the 18th, I believe."  
  
"Already?" Ryenne sighed. It never failed. The Christmas season snuck up on her every year. Not that it truly mattered, in any case. Christmas - in her opinion - was 'the most bloody horrible time of year'. As if she didn't' have enough bad memories already, the whole season dredged up deeper cuts and old, half-mended emotional wounds she would rather have forgotten.  
  
"Does seem to sneak up on a body, doesn't it?" Quinn commented cheerily, a tentative smile playing on his features. Seeing her somber look, however, it melted away quickly and he cleared his throat, trying to adopt a brisk air that suited him not at all. "Well, we'd better be getting on down to the galley...before Captain Jack..." he trailed off meaningfully.  
  
She nodded in agreement. "I understand." Chafing her arms furiously in attempt to keep warm, she followed him sedately, contemplating how she would be spending the journey from this point on.  
  
???  
  
Standing in the entrance to the galley, Ryenne was - once more - forcefully confronted by how her situation had changed. And further, although she kept a healthy undertone of anger and resentment towards Jack - Captain Sparrow, now, to her - she was surprised to find that she was prepared to accept it and move on - at least until they got to Port Royale. After that...she didn't know.  
  
Tossing her coat over the second of the two chairs at the rough, wooden table, she sat down at the first, rolling her eyes at the ready pile of carrots and potatoes for peeling. There was even a knife stuck point- first into the table. Choosing a particularly knobby potato, she grabbed the knife and set about her first task, allowing her mind to wander back to that Christmas all those years ago.....  
  
The proposal had been announced Christmas eve. She could still remember her portly father's booming voice as he told her how pleased he was with this excellent offer. He had said that it was her choice whether or not to accept, but that was only talk. She could tell by the greedy glint in his eyes as he looked her up and down, much like a pig about to be sold to the highest bidder. And it was just her luck that the highest bidder happened to be the one male she despised even more than her father. She would have no choice in the matter; any attempt at refusal would have been as hopeless as running headfirst into a brick wall and expecting it to crumble. But then, she had always been the sort to try something like that, depending on how desperate the situation seemed. And - in her eyes - it was desperate, indeed.  
  
Thomas Alden was the first son, and hence the heir, of one of the most influential - and wealthiest - families in Oxford, England, the city she'd grown up in. He was snotty, sweaty and pasty-faced, fond of snide putdowns and malicious remarks to those he considered beneath him. He was a year older than her; they had met at a Merchant's Guild banquet his father had hosted at their expansive country estate some months before. The moment Ryenne met him, she had decided that she loathed him, finding his mannerisms lascivious and disgustingly ingratiating. But he had appeared apparently stricken with her, popping up throughout the party wherever she tried to hide, once or twice even trying to kiss her.  
  
She had been avoiding him ever since.  
  
Her parents, however, were overjoyed. For a potential connection between their middle-class family, recently down on their financial luck, and one of such high standing....well, it was an opportunity not to be wasted. And on Christmas Eve, when the proposal finally came, Ryenne knew better than to appeal to them. Instead, she flat-out refused.  
  
Her parents tried nearly everything. They wheedled, cajoled, and begged her, pressing and pressing until she'd finally locked herself in her room, refusing to listen to them any longer. But on Christmas morning, her father had come back, his anger fueled overnight to become tenfold what it had been previously. He had physically broken down her door, charging in like an enraged bull, throwing everything he laid hands on. She'd weakly demanded that he leave, knowing it was futile, but she had not expected what he did next.  
  
Grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her, he flung her sobbing against the wall, where she crumpled into a helpless heap. He had then stood, a menacing silhouette in her doorway, and said in a deathly whisper.  
  
"If this is your decision, then so be it. But I expect you out of this house within the hour; leave, and you will be forever dead to me."  
  
So she had left. And that was how she was found some hours later that evening, shivering in an alley with her cloak tightly clutched around her, by a boy very different than Thomas. It had started to snow, and large crystal flakes were caught in the boy's thick mop of dark, curly hair, and speckled his hard-worn clothing. He stood looking down at her, tall but not ungainly, mirth and concern sparkling in his eyes and fine, animated features. Ryenne had been immediately captivated by the charm and intelligence that seemed to flow from him. When he spoke, it was in a soft baritone.  
  
"Are you lost, miss?" 


	16. Humiliation

DISCLAIMER: If we owned PotC, wouldn't this story be on Fictionpress? ....we DO own Ryenne, though. HA!  
  
Lost in memory, Ryenne didn't notice the haphazard job she was doing with the potatoes. It was only when the sharp blade of the knife she was using bit accidentally into her flesh that she became aware of her surroundings. Gasping in surprise, she brought the wound to her mouth, sucking on it like a child with frustrated tears pricking at her eyelids. Blinking them away, she glanced at her hand, running her fingers over the cut and gazing thoughtfully at the blood that came away on them.  
  
*Why?* she thought to herself, her old temptation edging back into her mind. *Why do I keep on like this......this humiliation....when it would be so easy....* she snatched up the knife once more, staring at the crimson lifeblood that shone on the short steel blade. Unconsciously, she was holding it poised, the point inches from her chest. She took a shuddering breath; perhaps her last. *...so easy...to end it all-*  
  
"What're you DOING, girl!?" Jack's voice sounded loud to her ears, and she jumped, spinning to face him and clenching the knife handle behind her back.  
  
"Nothing!" her voice came out as a squeak, causing his eyebrows to raise dramatically. Quelling her emotions, she steadied herself. "Nothing."  
  
She tensed as he took a few steps toward her, but relaxed as she saw him swaying dangerously as he did so. A half-empty rum bottle was gripped loosely in his right hand. He was drunk.  
  
"Nothing, eh?" he lisped, leaning on the tabletop for balance. "Well, seeing as you can't cook, it wouldn't be much good for me to tell you to cook me a fruitcake, would it?"  
  
"You ARE a fruitcake." She muttered, inconspicuously dropping the knife onto the table beside the mound of potato skins. Turning her back on him, she raised her voice so he could hear. "No, I can't cook a fruitcake."  
  
"How about a nice pudding?"  
  
"What?"  
  
He sighed drunkenly. "I guess not." She could hear him take a long drink from his flagon before he continued. "Well, do you know any Christmas carols?"  
  
"Why?" she asked exasperatedly, glaring at her cut and searching for something to bandage it with.  
  
Jack made an impatient noise in his throat. "Silly girl. You DO know that Christmas is only..." he paused momentarily, and she glanced over her shoulder to see him counting on his fingers. "..seven days away, don't you?"  
  
She nodded, bending down to search the cupboards for bandages. "I am aware of that, Captain."  
  
"Hmph. What are you doing, anyhow?" he grumbled, craning his head over her shoulder. She flinched away.  
  
"Nothing." She said defensively, trying to hide the still-bleeding cut on her hand. It was too late.  
  
"What happened there?" he grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand out so he could examine the nasty-looking gash. She wrenched away, hiding it from his view once more.  
  
"I cut myself while I was peeling potatoes."  
  
Jack's eyebrows furrowed and he waggled a finger under her nose. "Well, you should be more careful." He looked contemplating for a moment, then, tapped his nose as if he'd just had an intellectual breakthrough. "Here, perhaps you know this one..." he broke into a round of 'God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen'.  
  
"What?" it was obvious he didn't have much interest in her injury - for which she was glad - but he'd change subjects so fast she'd lost his meaning.  
  
He stopped singing abruptly. "Don't know that one, eh? Maybe this one." he took another swig of rum, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen. And the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even-"  
  
Cutting him off mid-verse, she shook her head irritably. "No, I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that one." She said sardonically, wishing he would leave.  
  
Setting the rum bottle down on the table, he did a little dance and started to sing once more. "Tomorrow shall be my daaancing daaay -" he seized her hand once more, pulling her roughly to her feet and wrapping an arm about her waist. She struggled to pull away, but -even though he was drunk - his grip was too strong.  
  
"What are you doing!?" she demanded as he stumbled into a chair, nearly causing them both to fall over.  
  
"Dancing!" he laughed, dragging her a few more shuffling steps. "Alas, my looove, you doo me wrooong to caast me ooff discourteously....daa duum dee du-um..."  
  
Finally managing to extract herself from his grip, she brushed her hair away from her face exasperatedly and glowered at him, her voice icy. "Are you not going to stop until you've humiliated me completely?"  
  
"What're you talking about, love?" he smiled impishly, taking up his rum once more and slouching into a chair.  
  
"You know EXACTLY what I'm talking about, Captain!" she snapped, snatching the bottle from his hand and flinging it at the wall, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. He looked surprised, but he remained frozen in his chair, unsure of what to do. "Why would I still be here, otherwise!?"  
  
Jack looked completely confused. "I'm not sure I follow you..."  
  
"Just get out!" she whispered, bracing herself on the table and fighting with a will against the angry tears that were - again - threatening her eyes. He remained for a moment, resenting the order, but afraid not to. Nodding to her soberly, he climbed to his feet and shuffled out the door, leaving it open behind him. She could hear his heavy footsteps, and sucked in a sharp breath when she heard him mutter, "I wouldn't go in there if I were you..." to an approaching crewman.  
  
Choking back a scream of rage, Ryenne snatched up a potato and flung it at the doorway, watching it smash with a satisfied grin. She couldn't take any more of the humiliation Jack bestowed upon her, his scorn only achieving to strengthening her grim resolve. It was over.  
  
???  
  
Jack stood in the crow's nest, the frosty night air nipping at his already half-frozen ears and nose, and succeeding in melting away the weighty effects of the rum. He couldn't bring himself to climb down, nor tear his eyes from the clear, star-studded sky. The night was unusually calm and silent - owing to the fact that only a few crewmembers remained awake - and the gentle lapping of the water against the side of the ship seemed to echo endlessly. The silence left far too much time to think, however. He could only half-remember Ryenne's sharp words to him that afternoon, but what he did remember stung him enough.  
  
Sighing wearily, he grabbed a ratline and began to make his way down to the sturdy ground of the deck, wincing as he did so. The deep rope burns he'd received the day he rescued her from the sharks were just beginning to heal, and were still quite tender. It was frustrating; especially since his rescue had been a thankless task. Being rescued only seemed to make the damn girl more upset with him, if that was possible, and had only been the beginning of more trouble.  
  
As though summoned up by the thoughts of her, Ryenne's voice suddenly shattered the silence, shouting raucously.  
  
Grumbling heatedly under his breath, he spun around, searching for the source of the racket. What was the girl up to now?  
  
"Tommorrow shall beee my daaancing daaaay- " her off-tune caterwauling floated easily to him on the frosty, still air, and he spotted her stumbling toward the bow. She seemed to have lost her mind completely, and, taking a second glance at her, he realized - to his horror - that she was as naked as a newborn babe, and carrying a bloody dagger in her right hand.  
  
Searching frantically for something to get him down faster, he grabbed at a rope, swinging off the ratlines with a yell. The air sliced at him and his stomach leaping into his throat, the horrifying falling feeling muted by his terror at what Ryenne was most certainly doing. The deck came up quickly beneath him, his knees bending as his feet connected with it, turning his heavy landing into a swift somersault. His ankle twisted painfully beneath him as he started to run, his eyes darting about, searching - once more - for the girl. She was still shouting unintelligibly.  
  
"-my daaaancing daaaaaay- " her voice sounded ragged, and she paused in her yelling to allow for a severe fit of coughing. Skirting a few tipped- over barrels and crates, Jack caught sight of her, pulling himself up to a short stop.  
  
She stood on the railing, swaying unsteadily and gazing down at the water below, the dagger still in her hand. Her left arm was bleeding. He tried to keep his eyes fixed above her shoulders, taking a tentative step towards her.  
  
"Ryenne, what are you DOING!?!?" he tried to sound reasonable but only managed to sound nothing short of frantic. "Have you lost your MIND!?"  
  
She whirled around to face him, her black hair blowing wildly in the wind, masking half of her face, her eyes glittering madly. *Keep your eyes UP, mate!* he thought fiercely, holding a hand out to her.  
  
"Come down from there, love." She shook her head, grinning in a crazed sort of way. Her voice was strangely calm and reasonable.  
  
"No, Jack. I'm going to go where NO ONE can hurt me. Not even you." She raised the dagger threateningly.  
  
"No one is trying to hurt you!" he pleaded, quickly shedding his coat with a shrug of his shoulders and offering it up to her. "Just come down....PLEASE!"  
  
Ryenne looked contemplating for a moment, and - before he could think of anything else - Jack leapt forward and caught her about the waist, throwing her bodily over his shoulder. Wrapping the coat about her as best he could as she kicked and fought him, he strode steadily toward his cabin, never loosening his grip.  
  
She was livid, screaming and crying and pounding on his back with her fists. "Let me go! LET ME GO!"  
  
His fingers closed over the cool metal of his doorknob and he swung the door open, tramping inside and dropping her onto his bed, where she lay, sobbing uncontrollably. Clenching his teeth and glaring at her, he slammed the door and pointed an accusing finger.  
  
"Listen here, girl! You WILL NOT be killing yourself! Not while I'm here!"  
  
She banged her fists on the bedsheets with a muffled thump and shrieked, "Why won't you let me die!? I want to die!" Lifting her head slightly, she glared at him through tear-glazed eyes. "You bastard! You don't know what it's like....to be....humiliated...tortured! All for the sake of the pride of...." she let her head fall once more, her voice breaking through her tears. "...the pride of....why? Why did they do this to me.....?"  
  
So piteous was her weeping that Jack found himself gathering her into his arms, letting her bury her face into his neck, and comforting her with his strong presence.  
  
. 


	17. Cloud and Shadow

DISCLAIMER: PotC is not owned by us. No, it isn't....  
  
I'm a priest for the poorest sacrifice  
I'm on a raft  
In the sea of sorrows  
Sorrow and grief  
You bathed in my wine  
Drank from my cup  
Mocked my rhyme  
Your slit tongues licked my aching wounds  
  
-Nightwish: Slaying the Dreamer  
  
Bright morning sunshine shone through the dusty windows, playing gently across Jack's face as he sat, sprawled in his favorite chair, watching Ryenne breathing quietly. His eyelids drooped wearily, and he leaned back into the comforting warmth of the velvet-covered cushions. It had taken him several hours to quiet Ryenne's sobbing, and it was near dawn when she finally drifted off into a dazed sort of slumber. He had, then, uncomfortably noticed that she was still nude, and - wondering what could have driven her to be so - had thrown a down comforter over her, hoping to quell her shivering, and too flabbergasted to do anything else.  
  
But he was now nearing the end of his endurance, physically and mentally. After forcing one eye back open to make sure that Ryenne was still quiet (she was), he prepared to just give up for now and sleep. Yes, he needed to sleep, sleep was good-  
  
He was jolted awake by a persistent rapping at the door of the cabin. His first mate's voice called, muffled through the wood.  
  
"Are ye alright, Cap'n? I heard there was some commotion last night, and I just thought I'd check on ye-" He stopped as Jack stepped out, carefully closing the door behind him and blinking in the sharp, clear sunlight.  
  
"I'm fine," he said quietly, then jerked his head towards the cabin. "It was just the girl, though she's quiet right now." He looked meaningfully at Gibbs. "Let's make sure she stays that way."  
  
Gibbs nodded understandingly. "Ah. Right, Cap'n." Jack turned to go back inside, but he spoke again as if remembering something. "Oh, we're three days from Royale, Cap'n, if this weather holds good. And young Quinn would like to know if he should take over galley duty for now. Considerate lad; seemed worried about the girl."  
  
"Tell hi yes, and Ryenne should be fine." *Should be,* he thought to himself, watching Gibbs hurry away. *I don't know if she'll every really be the same again.* But was that good....or bad? Shaking his head at his own lack of understanding, he opened the door to the cabin and slipped quietly into the shadowy interior. The shadows that held rest and peace for him.....and possible madness for Ryenne.  
  
???  
  
Thick, swirling white mist covered most of Ryenne's field of vision. Shuddering convulsively, she waved her arms in front of her, searching for some solid handhold to guide her through the deep cloud. Droplets of water condensed on her face, running down her cheeks like tears, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. As she did so, something red caught her eye, and she raised her hand once more to examine it. Jaw dropping in shock, she stared in horror at the blood covering her hand.  
  
"What...?" Tentatively, she brought her fingertips to her face, shrieking at the crimson lifeblood that came away with them. She frantically tried to wipe it away on her trousers, but it clung to her, staining her flushed skin. Whose blood was this? The answer was obvious enough, yet she repeated the question aloud, her voice echoing strangely in the foggy, clouded space.  
  
Yours....a voice whispered in her ear. She jumped - for she could feel its warm breath on her neck - and whirled about, trying futilely to find the source.  
  
"Who are you?" she cried, continuing to search for the speaker. There was no answer, save for the sound of waves breaking on some distant shore. She decided to try a different question. "Who did this to me?"  
  
The answer is in your own hands...... Realizing suddenly that she was indeed carrying something, she took a deep breath and peered down at the object in her hand, though it was half-hidden in sweeping tendrils of fog. There was no mistaking what it was: a dagger.....covered in dripping blood. She didn't even have to ask to know whose it was.  
  
Dropping it in alarm, she cried frantically, "No! I didn't do this! I couldn't....." looking down at her blood-stained hands, she took a few shaky breaths, trying to steady herself. "Am I dead?"  
  
Dead..ed..ed..ed....her voice echoed back, the empty space seemingly filled by the sound, and no other voice called back.  
  
The lack of answer frightened Ryenne far more than anything else, and a thousand more questions ran through her head. Was she really dead? What was this place? Why was she here? Somehow, she knew that her questions would remain unanswered, did she ask them, and she couldn't bear to have ghostly silence as a reply. Trying, instead, to concentrate on her surroundings, she turned a slow circle, peering avidly into the misty nothingness all around her. In every direction she turned, the landscape was exactly the same, making her wonder if she truly WAS moving at all.  
  
"Why am I here?" she mumbled under her breath, expecting no response at all. She was wrong.  
  
???  
  
Jack jumped awake, startled by Ryenne - who had suddenly screamed aloud - and hurried to her side, rubbing his eyes blearily. She was muttering incoherently, her eyes open wide - though clouded over - as though she were in some sort of trance. He passed a hand in front of them, but she didn't so much as blink.  
  
"Ryenne?" he whispered gently, brushing her sweat-soaked hair away from her face and placing a hand on her brow. She burned with fever. He swore quietly, pulling the blankets more snugly around her and shook his head regretfully. "You damn girl..."  
  
Crossing the room in a few quick strides, he threw open the door and poke his head out. "Get Quinn up here!" he shouted, slamming it once more. The boy was young, yes, but - despite that - he knew more about the healing arts than anyone else on board the Pearl. Jack remembered how carefully and gently the lad had cleaned and wrapped the wound on Ryenne's palm, taking extra care not to wake her. He had no idea how to make the fever recede, but he was sure Quinn would.  
  
???  
  
It was only a few short minutes before there came a quiet tapping on the cabin door, and Jack didn't even bother to move from his position near Ryenne's side, simply calling, "Come in, lad, and be quiet about it!"  
  
The door opened slowly, and Quinn stepped in, a worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder and a weary look on his face.  
  
"You wanted to see me, Captain?" his fingers twitched nervously as he fiddled with the flap of his bag.  
  
Jack nodded gravely, motioning for the boy to come closer. "Yes.... It's about Ry-Miss Caelar, here. I-I wondered...." his voice faltered suddenly, unsure of how to phrase his request. He'd never asked a favor of the lad before; he'd never needed to. "Is there anything you can do for her? She seems to have come down with some sort of fever, and-"  
  
Quinn's attention was no longer on him. He'd knelt beside the bed, placing a sun-browned hand across Ryenne's brow. A flicker of worry flashed in his eyes, but he said nothing, save for a slight sigh. Noticing the jagged gash down her arm - the one Jack had completely forgotten - he began to remove the blanket, as though it might impede whatever treatment he was about to perform, but stopped dead, his ears turning a bright shade of scarlet as he realized that his patient was, indeed, quite without clothing. Glancing up at Jack with a mortified expression on his face, he cleared his throat nervously and scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably.  
  
"Er...Captain?"  
  
Jack attempted to look somewhat unconcerned. "Yes, lad?"  
  
Quinn cleared his throat once more and motioned to Ryenne, uneasily holding Jack's gaze.  
  
"She....did you..." he stuttered, continuing to rub his neck as Jack raised a critical eyebrow. "Um...WHY is she...?" he seemed unable to finish the question; too embarrassed to try.  
  
Sighing resignedly, Jack leaned back in his velvet chair and massaged his throbbing temples. "It's a long story, lad."  
  
Quinn nodded as though he understood, but Jack had the distinct feeling that the boy really didn't understand at all; he was still scratching the back of his neck as though it pained him.  
  
"Er.....Captain, could you at least...?" he left the question unfinished once more, yet Jack knew exactly what he meant. Blinking uncomfortably, he choked back a bout of mental laughter at the irony of the situation. All the same, carrying out Quinn's request was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment. *It was bound to come up sooner or later,* he told himself, climbing to his feet reluctantly.  
  
"Quinn, lad, will you fetch me a shirt and trousers from that bureau over there?" 


	18. Through the Doorway

DISCLAMER: We don't own PotC! I'm not going to say it again!  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: We would just like to thank those of you who have been reviewing us from the very start. You are much appreciated. Special thanks going out to:  
TheSiriusSparrow  
PED-sarah  
arallahmenorah  
Padfoots-Pirate Keep reading and reviewing! Thank you again!  
  
.....  
  
A gap was forming in the fog. Door-shaped and oddly forbidding, a wave of frightened curiosity suddenly struck Ryenne, and she took a few hesitant steps toward it before stopping abruptly. While a huge part of her ached to cross the threshold of that doorway, another, smaller part of her told her it was a dangerous idea. Something was amiss about that odd hole in the cloud, though she couldn't place what it was. But, then again, something was amiss about the entire place, and she was getting nowhere just standing there. Taking a few deep, fortifying breaths, she stepped through the doorway and into the mist.  
  
???  
  
It had become strangely warm in the mist, and Ryenne shifted uncomfortably, too hot in her long coat. Afraid to take it off, however, she left it on, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat from her brow; it was not easy to forget the phantom blood still staining her hands. Glancing about, she saw that the landscape had changed drastically, the wall of fog becoming a narrow, winding corridor with a seemingly solid silver-gray floor. Touching a wall, she realized - much to her surprise - that they were cold and hard as granite, though the texture was more like silk. Taking a few steps forward, she nearly jumped at the sound of her own feet tapping on the floor, and turned around to re-examine the door. It was gone. Reaching out, she ran her fingers down the solid stone wall in front of her: there was no way out. She would have to make her way down the corridor and hope there was a way out.  
  
It was strangely silent in the corridor, though the distant sound of waves remained, though muffled somewhat. Every few steps she took, it would curve sharply, making it seem more a maze than a hallway. Several times, she tried pressing the walls with the palms of her hands to see if they would give way, but they didn't; they were just as solid as they felt. Beginning to feel claustrophobic, she walked faster, her eyes darting restlessly, searching for some sort of change in the never-ending, meandering corridor.  
  
So fast was she moving, that she nearly ran headfirst into the door in surprise.  
  
It was an ordinary wooden door with an ordinary metal handle, and yet it was quite out of place in the gray stone hall. Staring at it in shock, Ryenne didn't even think - at first - to open it. Who knew what would be on the other side, and, once having gone in, would she be able to come back out? There was no other way to go, however, save to turn around......but that was hopeless, as well. She would have to try her luck with the door and see what lay beyond.  
  
Placing a shaky hand on the doorknob, she suddenly realized how frightened she really was. There was no telling how much danger she could be in, and no clue as to what this place really was; how could she NOT be afraid? Sucking in her breath through clenched teeth, she turned the handle under her fingers, shoved open the door, and walked into pitch-blackness.  
  
Fumbling around with the door and stumbling forward a few steps, she squinted, trying to distinguish any obvious elements in her surroundings. Such as some sort of landmark....or monster, perhaps. Scrunching up her shoulders nervously, she began to back out of the room, but, behind her, she heard the door click shut, and - before she could do anything else - a bright light flashed, blinding her momentarily. She flung her arms up to shield her face, some unseen force throwing her backward off her feet, knocking the wind from her as she landed hard on her back.  
  
"Ow...." she whispered, massaging her ribs gently - too dazed to even consider standing.....when movement caught her eye.  
  
Blinking disbelievingly, she pushed herself up onto her elbows and gazed in amazement at the scene around her. It was her home - her father's home - the sweeping lawns swept up in the bloom of late spring. It was just as she remembered it, down to the very last budding rosebush. Scrambling unsteadily onto her feet, she turned a slow circle, awe and suspicion fighting for the stronger handhold. How could this be? She could feel the breeze on her face, the fragrant scent of apple blossoms filled her nostrils, the sound of birds singing drifted gently to her ears. But she could hear another sound as well, soft but unmistakable: a child was weeping somewhere nearby.  
  
Stepping neatly around a low shrubbery, she followed the well-worn path she still knew by heart. Low-hanging branches threatened to snap across her face, but she brushed them away impatiently, anxious to find the origin of the heart-rending sobs that hung so piteously in the warm air. Rounding a bend in the beaten path, she came to a clearing amid a grove of willow trees, and gasped in shock. A ten-year-old version of herself sat under the budding boughs of a particularly large willow, hugging her knees to her chest and crying as though the whole world had come tumbling down upon her.  
  
Ryenne gazed upon the small, shaking figure, her heart lamenting to remember the child she used to be. The girl's black hair had been worked into thick, glossy curls, held away from her face by a lavender ribbon - to match her dress. The dress had been her favorite: the gentle flush of the pale purple silk nicely complemented her smooth alabaster skin. Skin that was now rough and tanned, scarred and dirty. Ryenne didn't even notice the other small figure beside herself, until he spoke.  
  
"Don't cry, Carolyn. Don't cry." His voice was soothing as he spoke the girl's name - her old name, changed when she met Quinn - and wrapped a scrawny arm around her, resting his forehead against her temple. "It'll be alright....."  
  
"I don't want you to leave, Will!" she whimpered, throwing her arms about his neck in anguish. "Why do you have to leave?"  
  
Will. Will Turner, the only friend she'd had in her life as Carolyn Rutherford, daughter of Lord James and Lady Catherine Rutherford. Will was the son of one of her mother's maids, but that hadn't stopped her from forming a fast friendship with him. His polite, shy, honest manner was the direct contrast to her out-going, impatient one, and she loved him for it. Being two years her senior, he also took it upon himself to be her protector-of-sorts, though she rarely needed it. They'd even sworn on blood that they would never desert one another. But, the sudden death of his mother had changed all of that; he was leaving on a merchant ship the next day, set for the Caribbean.  
  
"I can't stay here." He replied solemnly, returning the embrace. "You know that."  
  
She sniffled pathetically lifting her head up so she could look him in the eye. "You could stay here; it's your home. You won't be turned away!" a hint of stubbornness crept into her voice. "You PROMISED you wouldn't leave me, Will! You PROMISED!"  
  
He sighed patiently, managing more grace than his years should have known, his freckles suddenly standing out sharper on his face as he shook his head regretfully. "You don't understand, Cary. We're different - you and I - and things don't work out as easily for me as they do for you...."  
  
Slow understanding dawned on her young face.  
  
"You don't want to stay, do you?"  
  
He hesitated a moment, going a bit red around the ears. "No...I don't." his face fell, and he mumbled. "I'm sorry, Carolyn."  
  
Shoving him away from her with an angry cry, she leapt to her feet, shouting, "I hate you!" before disappearing among the trees.  
  
Ryenne wiped a tear from her eye, hurrying to follow, not wanting to leave the memory behind, and - for the second time in her life - she didn't stay to see Will's eyes well up with guilty tears.  
  
???  
  
Jack slumped uncomfortably in his chair, watching Quinn minister to Ryenne. The boy was meticulous and careful, speaking soothingly while he worked. Not that it had any effect on Ryenne, who continued to lie still on the bed with her eyes wide open, blank and unseeing. Every now and then she would utter a soft moan, and then Quinn would replace the damp cloth on her brow and lightly press his fingers on her pale cheeks. She would soon quiet, and he would go back to the strange brew he seemed to be concocting in the rough wooden bowls used by the crew, carefully crumbling a leaf of some herb, and then draining it into a second bowl, only to add yet another kind of herb.  
  
Jack was actually rather mystified. He had known the boy had some skills with healing, but this....? He sat up slightly, craning his already- sore neck in order to see more clearly what he was doing. The mixture had now become a dark olive green, and looked thick and rather sludge-like. Pouring most of it out into the first bowl, Quinn added some water from a flask to what remained, swirling it until it was thoroughly mixed, kneeling next to the bed - close to Ryenne's head - and, after a couple of unsuccessful attempts, managed to tilt her head up and persuade her to drink. Jack doubted she was even aware of it, however; the action seemed more reflexive than controlled.  
  
As Quinn began to gather his belongings in the worn, leather satchel he had brought, Jack got up and crouched on the floor, inspecting the bowl that still contained the rest of the thick mixture. Lifting it, he gingerly sniffed it, then blinked in surprise. It smelled like crushed mint and cold night air, not foul - as he had suspected by its appearance. Replacing it gently, he turned his attention to Quinn, unbridled curiosity clear on his face.  
  
"Who taught you herb lore?" he asked, being sure to speak quietly. The boy didn't respond for a moment, continuing to gather, slowly, each packet of dried herbs. Finally, he looked up, crystal blue eyes blank and guarded.  
  
"My mother," he said finally, closing the satchel. "She was a healer in our village."  
  
Jack pondered this for a moment, eyeing Quinn consideringly.  
  
"But you came to us when you were only ten or so. What happened to her?" Well he remembered the day they had taken the lad aboard. The Pearl had docked at a small port, north of the English channel, posing as a merchant vessel down on its luck. There had been no pillaging, fighting or wild burning of houses during their stay, but nonetheless, the townspeople had quickly become suspicious of their intents and had demanded their departure. An hour before they had weighed anchor, however, a young boy had appeared on the dock, dirty, thin, and starving. He had begged permission to come with them, promising fervently to do whatever they asked of him, if they would only take him away from there.  
  
In an odd way, he had reminded Jack of himself at that age, their situations only vaguely similar, but the shining hope that he saw in the boy's eyes had been bright and pure and a mirror image of his own. Short- handed and intent on making way as quickly as possible, Jack had asked no questions, save the boy's name, and allowed him on, feeling only vague guilt at not telling Quinn the truth about the Pearl, (that they were really pirates). But, he had adapted easily, and before long was an invaluable member of the crew.  
  
"She died soon before I left," Quinn said abruptly. "The villagers accused her of witchcraft and burned our cottage. With her in it."  
  
Stunned, Jack studied the boy's face. He seemed to be repressing his grief with great force of will - and failing. Tears of rage and sorrow welled up in his eyes and he ducked his head, hiding them from view.  
  
Tentatively, he placed a hand on Quinn's shoulder, wincing as he jerked away. "You know, you shouldn't blame yourself, lad."  
  
"You don't understand, sir," Quinn spat. "It WAS my fault. If I had been there to stop them...she never would have-" he choked on a threatening sob.  
  
"Couldn't your father have stopped them, as well?"  
  
Quinn took a few deep breaths, obviously ashamed of what he probably deemed a show of weakness.  
  
"My father died of the lung sickness days after I was born and my mother swore she would someday find the cure; that was why she became a healer. She never did find it, but she helped so many people...I don't suppose it mattered." He gestured to the satchel. "This is all I have left of her. I-I was gathering herbs when she was murdered." He stood quickly, and Jack stood as well. Going to the door, Quinn added, with a compassionate glance at Ryenne, "That will take down her fever and let her sleep, at least. If she wakes, mix a small amount more with the water I've left."  
  
Jack nodded once, and gathered the two bowls and flagon, placing them on the desk as Quinn exited the cabin as quietly as he had entered, all traces of tears or passion so completely disappeared that they could never have been. 


	19. Make Your Choice

DISCLAIMER: If you don't already know by now that we don't own PotC, you probably haven't really been reading the story.  
  
Ryenne jogged awkwardly behind the younger version of herself, twice almost losing sight of the small figure. Picking up her pace as young Carolyn slipped through the door at the side of the house, she immediately sensed a change around her as her fingers closed on the door handle.....and she wasn't sure she liked it. It was as though the world was spinning, and she couldn't stop it. Throwing the door open, the light suddenly vanished, and she was left in darkness once more. But it was not complete darkness as before, and - looking up at the sky - she could easily see the glittering stars and silver orb of the moon. The pale light cast shadows across the place in front of her, and she realized - with some confusion - that she was, yet again, looking upon the grounds of her family's home, though they appeared, somehow, different.  
  
Absorbed in the beauty of the immaculately landscaped lawn in the moonlight, she nearly overlooked the cloaked figure standing just to her right. Stepping up beside a, now, sixteen-year-old her, she peered into the familiar face, wanting nothing more than to wipe away the glistening tears that rolled slowly down it. Judging by the heavy cloak, and the knapsack slung over her shoulder, Ryenne could easily remember the cause of those tears: she was seeing her last night as Carolyn Rutherford, daughter of a Lord and Lady, six years before.  
  
"Goodbye..." The young girl whispered almost inaudibly, bringing Ryenne out of her short reverie. Then, uttering a sigh that was almost a sob, she readjusted the bag on her shoulder and glided swiftly across the yard, Ryenne tagging on her heels.  
  
Ryenne glanced about as they strode down the streets that were once so familiar to her, now nothing more than a shadow of a memory, every so often looking up to make sure that she hadn't lost her younger self. Then, suddenly, something happened that she hadn't quite remembered....or perhaps, hadn't WANTED to.  
  
"Where are you going, Carolyn?" a dark figure demanded, stepping out of the shadow's to Ryenne's left, and her eyes narrowed in fury. "You didn't think you were going to leave me, did you?"  
  
"Thomas?" the 16-year-old looked shocked and frightened, yet grimly determined all the same. "How did you find me?" her voice was hard and cold, deservingly so.  
  
Thomas Alden laughed evilly, taking a step toward the girl. "I followed you.....from your father's banquet, you remember." Ryenne watched as he backed her young self into a corner swiftly, cut off from escape. Clenching her fists angrily, she lunged at him; she wasn't going to go through this again. But, much to her surprise, she fell straight through the pair of specters, landing hard on the cold ground.  
  
You can't change the past......the whispering voice reminded her, a slight breeze blowing out of nowhere, brushing her hair away from her face. Rolling onto her back, she stared up in horror as Thomas seized Caroline's - her - jaw, making the girl cry out in pain.  
  
"You ARE going to marry me!" he growled, leaning in so his face was mere inches from her. Her face was set with courage and anger, though her breathing was ragged.  
  
"No." she replied evenly, suddenly letting out a cry of rage and bringing her knee up into his groin. He moaned and fell away, leaving her space to run past him, disappearing into the night. Scrambling to her feet, Ryenne tried - in vain - to follow, but the girl was already gone. Unwilling to admit defeat, however, she kept running.....and then, the scene began to change once more.  
  
Squeezing her eyes shut in nauseous pain as the whole world began to spin again - time speeding forward - she clutched her head and groaned as another bright flash of sunshine blinded her, even with her eyes closed.  
  
"This isn't going to work, Quinn!"  
  
Ryenne's eyes snapped open, resting upon the two familiar figures crouched behind a mountain of barrels and crates. The smaller of the two tugged nervously on the front of the tri-cornered hat she was wearing, pulling it down further over her eyes.  
  
"Oh, come on, Ryenne!" Quinn laughed, slapping the smaller figure on the back, nearly knocking her off-balance. "You never think ANYTHING will work!"  
  
"That's because it never does!" the figure glanced suspiciously over her shoulder and Ryenne found herself - once again - looking at another version of her 16-year-old self. Though the memory took place scarcely a week later than the previous one, this girl was quite different.  
  
Dressed in worn breeches and a ragged blue shirt with her face overshadowed by her hat, it was impossible to tell she was the same person as the clean, well-dressed girl of before....at least, without looking very closely. Despite that, though, her mannerisms were the very same as before.  
  
"You're mad!" she muttered, punching Quinn jovially in the shoulder, to which he responded with an indignant look.  
  
"I'm not mad, you just need to take more chances!"  
  
"I DO take chances!"  
  
He looked skeptical, making Ryenne - the REAL Ryenne - laugh nostalgically. "Oh, really? Name one you've taken recently."  
  
She snorted. "I'm here with YOU, aren't I?"  
  
He laughed, throwing an arm around her and pulling her hat down over her eyes. "You're a brave soul, aren't you, love?" Ryenne cringed at the old nickname, but her sixteen-year-old self only smiled benignly.  
  
"Alright, Quinn, tell me what I need to do."  
  
???  
  
Feeling slightly guilty that he was out in the refreshing morning air while Ryenne lay - still in the deep clutches of the fever - unconscious in his cabin, Jack easily guided the tiller, making sure their course was correct before surrendering the position to Gibbs, who seemed far more competent at the moment. Sinking onto the deck and slumping against the railing, he rubbed his eyes wearily, letting out a groan.  
  
"Alright there, Cap'n?" Gibbs asked, his voice seeming far too loud for Jack's ears. Moaning slightly, he waved the question off, leaning back and closing his eyes.  
  
"Fine, Gibbs...." He yawned. "Just....." he yawned again. "...exhausted."  
  
"Then, why don't ye go have yerself a rest?" the suggestion sounded both appealing and inconsiderate at the same time.  
  
"I can't, mate....." yawn. "Quinn is in there...." longer yawn. "..with Ryenne."  
  
His first mate nodded, a hint of concern edging into his voice. "How is the lass doing?"  
  
Jack grabbed the edge of the railing, pulling himself up and trying to shake off some of his weariness. "She should've come out of the fever by now, but she hasn't." he looked doubtful. "Quinn says there's still a good bit of hope that she'll fully recover."  
  
*Hope,* he thought dejectedly. *What good is THAT, when you've got Death tagging along on your very heels?*  
  
???  
  
Ryenne's vision was, once more, clouded by impenetrable fog, and she shivered uncontrollably. The mist was no longer warm in the least way, but freezing cold, making her skin and clothes uncomfortably damp. Even her coat brought her no respite from the bitter cold, but, she couldn't concentrate on that as the mists began to part, and she felt her eyes opening - really opening. Groaning groggily, she realized that she was laying on a bed, rather than standing - as she'd thought she was - and the whispering voice returned. But - this time - she recognized it.  
  
"Quinn, lad?" she moaned quietly as the boy's face swam into view. His eyes opened wide in surprise, and he snatched up her hand.  
  
"Miss Caelar!?" he looked thoroughly pleased. "Captain Jack! Come quick!"  
  
But, even as she heard footsteps approaching, the sounds faded away, and darkness enveloped her once more.  
  
???  
  
"I don't tolerate stowaways on my ship!" Ryenne easily recognized the voice of her old captain, Jim Red, and surveyed the scene in front of her with interest. The memory was a familiar one, and not entirely bad. There she stood - the sixteen-year-old her - next to her mate, Quinn, looking much more courageous than she felt. Quinn, for his part, looked cool and emotionless, never taking his eyes off of Red's face.  
  
Her young self stepped up, an attempt at a fierce expression on her face, hand on the hilt of her sword.  
  
"And neither do we! Where are the villains? I'll tear them apart!" she tried to whip the sword out, but it caught on the scabbard, the result nearly making her topple off her feet. The crew and their captain laughed uproariously at the spectacle, momentarily forgetting their punishment for a pair of stowaways. "Give me a moment!" she mumbled.  
  
"Stop it, Ryenne!" Quinn hissed, running a hand through his curly black hair. "We're already caught!"  
  
Captain Red good-naturedly slapped her on the back just as she was giving her sword another mighty tug, and the hilt broke off suddenly in the palm of her hand. Staring at it in abject horror, she furrowed her eyebrows.  
  
"Well......I guess that's the end of that...."  
  
Quinn shook his head miserably, staring at the deck. "Oh, dear Lord..."  
  
"Hehe. Ye have spirit, lass. We could use ye on our crew...." Red laughed as she tossed the sword aside with a shrug. "What say you?"  
  
She looked considering, and glanced at Quinn, who didn't meet her eyes. "I say....let my mate join your crew as well....and give me another sword...." the crew laughed heartily. "...and you have yourself an accord." She offered him her hand, which he shook firmly.  
  
"Agreed."  
  
.  
  
The memories were beginning to change - again - but something was horribly wrong this time. The light flickered like a candle in a gale, images flashing before her eyes so quickly she almost couldn't distinguish them, and a sharp pain seized her head, making it feel as though someone had driven a knife clean through her skull. She could see herself being forced off the plank, walking down the derelict streets of Tortuga.......and Jack. Reeling, she couldn't get them to stop coming, and couldn't resign herself to the show. Locked in the brig, sailing at the bow of the Pearl, Isla deMuerta, the curse, her face.... It was all coming too fast. Then, suddenly, it stopped.  
  
Another door stood in front of her. Wood, just as the other had been, but - somehow - more elegant; more alluring. Not bothering to think, she grabbed the silver handle and threw it open, stopping abruptly. What was THIS!?  
  
.  
  
She lay (her, as she was now) on a bed with white sheets, her black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. This was not so disconcerting as the fact that she was laying with her head resting on Jack's bare chest, a dreamy expression on her face. He had his arm around her, his fingers twined in her hair and a contented smile upon his face - like a cat that'd just helped himself to a bowlful of cream. He sighed and tilted her chin up so she was looking at him, planting a gentle kiss upon her lips.  
  
"I love you, Ryenne." His fingers brushed her cheek.  
  
From the doorway, Ryenne stared in complete shock and bewilderment as the girl lying on the bed - her - returned his kiss and whispered. "I love you....Jack."  
  
This was no memory.....so what was it? A vision of the future? The sight melted away, more slowly than any of the others, and she was left standing - for the last time - in the sea of swirling mist.  
  
???  
  
Jack jumped up as Quinn called his name, hurrying across the room and throwing himself down net to Ryenne's bed...just in time to see her eyelids flutter closed. Not tearing his eyes from her face, he put two fingers to her neck...her pulse was still steady.  
  
"What happened, Quinn lad?" he demanded, taking Ryenne's other hand in both of his.  
  
"She woke for a minute, sir...she called my name," the boy's face fell slightly. "And I thought..."  
  
Jacked looked at the lad, surprised to see that his head was bowed over Ryenne's hand, his eyes closed....as though....he was praying. Letting his grip on Ryenne loosen, he turned away as though to leave her alone with the boy. It wasn't his place to interfere in a situation like this; Quinn truly cared for the girl, and he....well, he wasn't sure. But, as he turned away, she mumbled something he almost didn't hear. Almost.  
  
"I love you, Jack."  
  
Turning back, he saw Quinn's eyes open, his back tensing slightly. Taking a few steps toward her, he knelt again, slowly glancing at the lad - who appeared to have gone temporarily comatose - and then back at Ryenne. His mind was spinning madly.  
  
"What did she say, boy?"  
  
Quinn didn't reply for a moment, and - when he did - Jack could hear the warring emotions in his voice. "She said..." he took a deep breath. "She said.....that she loves you."  
  
"Yes," Jack nodded awkwardly, dazed and confused. "That's what I thought she said...."  
  
???  
  
Kept in shock by what she had just seen, Ryenne did not resist - though she did flinch slightly - when a cold, invisible hand took her own and began to lead her forward through the fog. What had that vision meant? It seemed so much more real than the others; unlike the shades of the past that she had been forced to watch earlier, even as she stood there and saw herself on the bed, she could almost feel Jack's arm around her, feel the pleasure and contentment that his words inspired in her.  
  
But for the real Ryenne, the one that she was now, confusion was flooding her thoughts as she paid no attention to where she was being led.  
  
Suddenly, the hand released her, and she blinked in the warmth of the summer sunlight that flooded her senses. She turned around quickly surprise; the white wall of mist that she had come out of was slowly receding, leaving behind a large expanse of parched desert-red ground, scattered with rocks. As it went further, though, grass began to appear, green and cool and fresh, and beyond that, the border of a young deciduous forest.  
  
Inviting though the scene was, however, Ryenne still felt compelled to move forward in the direction the hand had been leading her.  
  
Turning away from the forest, she looked out over the barren ground. A ways ahead of her, it seemed to end in a cliff; the edge was jagged and abrupt. The seemingly setting sun cast a long shadow out over the desert that stretched from the bottom of the cliff, everything the same dusty-red color as where she stood. The only variation was in the huge rocks that stood alone or lay toppled against each other, sporadically placed. For no reason apparent to her, Ryenne walked out to the cliff edge, fearlessly surveying the fatal drop that awaited her with only one more step. Of course, in this ethereal world, it was unlikely that that one step WOULD be fatal; Who knew what would happen? She lifted one foot, fully ready to take the plunge - and put it back down, her eyes widening considerably as slowly, one by one below her...people were beginning to appear.  
  
They were shadowy and insubstantial at first, but as she watched, their outlines firmed and they stood on the red soil, as real as herself. She squinted, trying to make out their faces. It was all the people who had ever hurt her - or that she'd ever perceived herself to have been hurt by. Looming, smirking faces that haunted her dreams and made substance for her nightmares. Tyrus, Will, her first mate Quinn, her father, Thomas.... They all grinned up at her, shouting her name and calling her down to join them. It appeared she now had a choice of paths: to take her chances and step off the cliff - down to them - or to turn away from the past she had held onto so long and go into the forest.  
  
Wryly, she searched their ranks for her current favorite nemesis, Jack Sparrow. He wasn't there. Feeling vaguely disappointed, she jumped when his voice spoke behind her.  
  
"Which do you want, Ryenne? You can't stand at the edge forever."  
  
"Why not?" she asked, defiantly raising her chin, even as she realized he was right.  
  
"Come with me," his dark brown eyes pleaded with her own. "Come down from there."  
  
She had to glance at him twice to really recognize him. He looked as he usually did, but there was also a soft radiance coming from him that she felt herself drawn to. Involuntarily, she took a step forward, then checked herself.  
  
"And, what do you have to offer me?"  
  
"Something much more valuable than anything they ever could," he said, gesturing at the small assembly at the foot of the cliff. Their echoing calls still found their way up to Ryenne's ears in the still air, and she tried futilely to block out the harsh and derisive words. Jack began walking slowly towards her, reaching out his rough, seaman's hand to take her own, equally calloused. Numbly, she let him as he whispered softly,  
  
"I offer you peace....peace and freedom."  
  
And as she let herself be led away from the arid desert and towards the cool, green shade of the forest, she looked back only once, to find that the voices that had plagued her for so long....were silent.  
  
???  
  
What do you see  
On the horizon?  
Why do the white gulls call?  
Across the sea  
A pale moon rises  
The ships have come to carry you home.  
  
-Annie Lennox: Into the West 


	20. Old Friends

Disclaimer: We don't own PotC, sadly enough.  
  
Jack strolled easily down the all-too-familiar streets of Port Royale, trying to keep a low profile. It had been a few years since he'd last set foot in the port town in which he'd been so infamous, yet he didn't want to attract too much attention. Who knew if Norrington was still keeping an eye out for him? When he'd last escaped, it seemed that they were not even making an effort to recapture him, and it made him wonder..... What had happened after he'd fallen off the ledge? What had happened to Will....and Elizabeth? Shaking his head mournfully, he adjusted the lapels of his coat and glanced up at the faded wooden sign of Brown's Blacksmith forge. He wondered.....  
  
"Jack?" a voice called from behind him. "Jack Sparrow?" it sounded....oddly familiar. Turning quickly, he found himself face to face with....  
  
"Elizabeth?" the girl looked little different than when he'd last seen her, though she shone with a new sort of radiance. She smiled warmly at him - surprised, yet pleased - and called over her shoulder.  
  
"Will! Come quick!"  
  
"Quick? I'm not going anywhere." He laughed, raising her hand to his lips and brushing them gently against it as Will stepped up behind her.  
  
"Jack?" he looked up at his old comrade, once only a blacksmith-turn- pirate, now, obviously far better off.  
  
"Good to see you again, mate."  
  
Will's eyes crinkled into a smile, and his mouth twitched. "It's good to see YOU again! How are you?"  
  
Jack shrugged, a smile forming upon his own face. "Same as I've always been. I've been through a few scrapes recently - "  
  
"That's obvious." Elizabeth interjected, gesturing to the shadow of a bruise on his cheekbone. "What happened?"  
  
He didn't quite feel like discussing Ryenne at the moment; there were too many questions, too much to explain. And, now, that she hung so close to death....  
  
"Erm.....just got into a bit of a scuffle with a new crew member." He shrugged again. "How are things here?"  
  
"Quite good, actually." Will replied, putting his arm around Elizabeth's waist and nodding enthusiastically. "We're actually....erm......" he glanced at her, smiling helplessly. She patted his arm, and - pausing a moment - she continued for him.  
  
"I'm pregnant!"  
  
Jack's eyebrows attempted to climb into his hairline.  
  
"Really? Well, you certainly don't look it!" he complimented, truly meaning it. She replied with a modest smile, leaning into Will's arm. "Congratulations! It's surprise enough to have seen you, but this.!"  
  
"Actually, we're hosting a banquet tomorrow evening, for Christmas, you know...." Will ventured hopefully. "If you'd like to come, you'd be very welcome."  
  
"Well, er..." Jack felt suddenly uncomfortable. If he went to one of their high society parties, and was spotted.....it was the noose for him. "What about Norrington, mate? I'm not exactly a friend where he's concerned - "  
  
"Oh, don't worry about him." Elizabeth said reassuringly. "He's been in Africa some weeks now. About ten days ago, we received word that the Dauntless was attacked by a pirate ship," Jack laughed mentally, knowing exactly whom they'd been attacked by. "and would need more time there for repairs. He's not due back for some time."  
  
???  
  
Quinn was abruptly jolted awake as a weak voice pervaded his senses; quiet, but enough to waken a light sleeper, such as himself. Rubbing his eyes, he peered blearily at Ryenne, two and two not quickly being put together.  
  
"Quinn, lad?" she repeated, propping herself up onto her elbows and blinking at the flickering light of the oil lamp that sat at her bedside. It took a moment, but suddenly, his mind began to function properly.  
  
"Miss Caelar! You're awake!" he cried, scrambling to his feet and hurrying to her side. She half-smiled, leaning against the headboard of the bed and surveying the room thoughtfully.  
  
"How long have I been asleep?"  
  
"Several days," he replied, a grin spreading across his features. He was so happy, so relieved. He couldn't believe that -  
  
"Where's Jack?" Ryenne's voice sounded urgent, making his smile fade somewhat. He tried to keep his tone light, though he was sorely disappointed that she found Jack's location so important. After all, HE was the one who'd healed her....  
  
"He's not on board, at the moment, but I'm sure he'll be back soon."  
  
Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean 'he's not on board'? How could he not.....? Where ARE we?"  
  
"Port Royale, Miss Caelar." He answered promptly, beginning to feel more and more frustrated. Why was she so hysterical to see Jack?  
  
"Quinn, stop calling me 'Miss Caelar'." She said irritably.  
  
"What should I - "  
  
"Ryenne. Just Ryenne."  
  
He nodded uncomfortably, letting his eyes flit around the room, then finally come to rest on her. She looked lost in thought, biting her lip and frowning. "Is there anything I can get you, Miss - Ryenne?"  
  
Blinking dazedly, she shook her head slightly. "I'm sorry....what did you say?" Narrowing his eyes as her face paled slightly, his level of concern outran his frustration a bit.  
  
"I asked if you needed anything."  
  
"No, no, I'm fine." She replied reassuringly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I just need to get a bit of fresh air, that's all - "  
  
"Don't!" Quinn warned, promptly catching her as her legs buckled beneath her and helping her back onto the bed. "You're still far too weak, don't overtax yourself." He tucked a blanket around her.  
  
"I NEED to find Jack!" she insisted, brushing him away and trying to stand. He pushed he back down gently.  
  
"He'll be back soon enough."  
  
She grimaced at him. "You don't understand, lad! I need to speak with him right away!" she was acting delirious, but - he asked himself - what else could he expect from someone who'd been unconscious for so long?  
  
"It'll be alright." He tried futilely to comfort her, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking her in the eyes. "Listen to me," she met his gaze evenly. "You're fine, now. You're safe."  
  
Weakly shoving him away, she took a swing at him, suddenly stopping abruptly and staring in shock at the baggy sleeves of the white cotton shirt she was wearing; the one Jack had dressed her in. For a moment, Quinn seriously considered giving her some kind of sedative; he'd never before seen her act like this.  
  
"What...?" she mumbled, peering at the sleeve more closely. "This isn't mine!"  
  
"It's Jack's." he replied shortly, trying not to think about the situation BEFORE she'd had the shirt on, his ears turning crimson. She was now staring at the black trousers she was had on.  
  
"But.....I was....wearing....." she looked completely puzzled, making Quinn feel somewhat confused himself.  
  
"No, you weren't."  
  
"I wasn't what?"  
  
He squirmed uncomfortably. "You weren't.....wearing...anything...."  
  
"I wasn't?" her voice was alarmingly even.  
  
Shaking his head, he wondered why he was suddenly so afraid for his life. "Er....no."  
  
???  
  
Ryenne buried her face in her hands, trying - unsuccessfully - to figure out why she hadn't been wearing...anything. She could vaguely remember something about being extremely angry....and large quantities of rum.......  
  
"Oh no...." she mumbled, shaking her head in abject misery and horror. Slowly raising her gaze to the boy, she tried to keep her voice calm and smooth, though she felt like being sick. "Quinn, did YOU.....?" Unsure of how to phrase the rest of the question, she gestured to the shirt.  
  
"No....." he replied quietly. She let out a sigh of relief. "....Jack did."  
  
She cut off mid-sigh. This was worse than she'd thought! Idiotically enough, she'd gotten VERY drunk, attempted to kill herself (terrible idea) and Jack had seen her......clothing....less.... She didn't even want to imagine what he'd have to say when he returned. It wasn't as if she could TRY imagining, in any case, her dream images plaguing her mind the way they were.  
  
Quinn looked as helpless as a mouse trapped in a corner. Ryenne suddenly felt somewhat catlike.  
  
"Boy," she demanded, refusing to let herself blush. "How many of the crew know about this?"  
  
He rubbed his neck nervously. "Just Jack and I."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Mostly....yes."  
  
She heaved a sigh that sounded more like a whimper than anything else. "This is just WONDERFUL!" Flopping onto her stomach, she lay face- first in the pillows, hoping to smother herself, but not really putting any effort into it. "...wonderful....."  
  
???  
  
Ryenne lay on her back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused as she replayed every memory dredged up by her temporary insanity. For it HAD been insanity; what else could possibly have made her do such a ridiculous thing? Even amending for the fact that she had drunk a full flagon of strong rum by herself beforehand, it was still amazing. And even more so was that she had survived - with Jack and Quinn's aid, of course.  
  
Quinn. A small smile played about her lips as she thought of the boy. Before he had left, he had extracted - with a force of will that Ryenne found surprising - a promise from her to at least rest awhile before going into Port Royale to find Jack. And she had agreed readily enough; pressing though it was for her to speak with him, her head also felt like it was going to split like the two halves of a walnut. It was NOT a pleasant feeling.  
  
But Quinn - she knew that she owed him a great deal for what he had done for her. Somewhere, she knew, he had learned to heal, and without his care and patience she would probably still be in the grips of the fever. And so she honored her word and rested, while the afternoon hours slowly gave way to evening.  
  
??? 


	21. The Silver Gryphon

DISCLAIMER: Still don't own PotC...you didn't think we were going to say we did, did you?  
  
As the last rays of the setting sun faded from the water, a ship glided into a small cove on the opposite side of the island. It had stayed mainly out of sight of the townspeople; it was a secretive sort of ship, an impression greatly enhanced by its midnight black sails. Upon closer inspection, one would have seen that even the rigging, rat lines, and various coils of ropes were tarred black - whether for protection from the elements or to complete the effect was open to interpretation. On its bow, however, the reflection of the last sparkles on the water glinted menacingly off the eyes of the gryphon's head that was its jutting figurehead.  
  
A silver gryphon.  
  
???  
  
It was wonderful to be back with old friends, though Jack fondly, looking at the merry faces of Will and Elizabeth. They were nearly the same as they had been before, back during the epic adventure that had brought the three of them together in the first place; the only real difference now was that they were, of course, married. Elizabeth's father had bought them a roomy, spacious house worthy of the governor's daughter, and with the money granted to him along with the amnesty, Will had finally enough to buy the smithy he had long apprenticed in from its fat, drunken owner. The first thing he had done was to make sure that it was widely known that every sword produced there had been made by him; for himself, Jack wondered how anyone could possibly have thought otherwise. And as for Elizabeth - well, although it had been absolutely true when he had said she didn't look it - she already had the warm glow of anticipation in her face and voice.  
  
Their bantering, talking, laughing, and general reminiscing went on for the better part of the day, and it was only when evening fell that Jack warmly bade them farewell, with a promise that he would return on the morrow for their banquet.  
  
???  
  
It was close to evening when Ryenne woke from her light slumber. She lay for a moment with her eyes open, collecting her thoughts and orienting herself. There were no windows in the cabin, but outside, one of the crewmen rang the small gong that sounded third watch; so it was five o'clock. Slowly sitting up, she stood (somewhat unsteadily), and cast about for her coat. Well, it was technically Jack's coat.....along with everything else she was wearing. Even though there was no one to see, she still blushed in a strange mixture of embarrassment and anger at the thought. He had DRESSED her!? How DARE he! No matter that he had saved her life.  
  
Finding the coat in a heap on the floor in the corner, she irritably shrugged it on and slammed the door on her way out of the cabin.  
  
???  
  
The streets of Port Royale were shadowy, the evening-red of the sun blocked by the hills that overlooked the port. As she wandered, Ryenne raptly took in her surroundings, faintly amused by the quaintness of the town. It was medium-sized compared to most colonies, she supposed; there was a distinct boundary line where the smaller houses ended and the opulent ones began, owned by the nobility that had migrated from England, drawn - no doubt - by the fabled beauty and warmth of the Caribbean. After all, it was a pleasant enough place to live - far better than Tortuga, at any rate - and well-fortified against attacks of any kind. Ryenne snorted. What kind of pirate would DARE attack an anti-pirate fanatic like Norrington? Grinning sheepishly, she remembered EXACTLY what kind.....she had, after all.  
  
Turning onto a brightly lit side street, the grin on her face flickered......and disappeared. Now that she had gone out to look for Jack, she didn't have the faintest idea WHY she was looking for him. In fact - now that she thought about it - searching him out was probably the worst thing she could be doing; avoiding him completely would be far more effective in this particular situation. Yes.....she'd avoid -  
  
The sound of raucous voices snapped her out of her reverie, and she turned to receive the source of the noise.......and gasped.  
  
???  
  
"This is not happening......" She whispered, completely horrified. The thought to turn and run finally hit her, but it was already too late; she'd been spotted.  
  
"Look what we got here, mates!" Tyrus chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding to the shadowy, menacing figures looming behind him; shadow specters from Ryenne's past......except, they weren't shadows.  
  
"What're you doing here!?" she demanded, backing away a few steps. The mass of threatening figures behind Tyrus began to spread, circling around her, closing her in.  
  
"I was just about to ask you the same question, Caelar." Several strong pairs of hands seized Ryenne suddenly, twisting her arms painfully behind her. She stifled a gasp, trying desperately to wrench away....all in vain. Tyrus grinned evilly, relishing the frightened expression on her face; she tried to wipe it away, but couldn't. "Word is, you've been sailing with the Black Pearl."  
  
"Maybe....maybe not." She spat, wriggling as the rough hands squeezed her wrists and shoulders in a vise-like grip. "In either case, I wouldn't tell you!"  
  
"Snuggling up to another captain, are you?" he sneered, taking a few steps closer. She cringed: something was about to happen, and whatever it was, it wasn't going to be good. "I've heard of this.....Sparrow......." he continued, looking her up and down. ".....and he's not one to suffer a worthless little tripe like you."  
  
"You don't know - " Ryenne cried angrily, lunging at Tyrus. A sharp blow to her cheek sent her reeling, back into her captors' arms. Tears of pain sprung to her eyes, but she blinked them back.  
  
He lowered his arm, his sneer reappearing. "You're just his little pet, aren't you? His plaything." She glared. "I see.......you're not one to go after REAL men - "  
  
"You're not HALF the man he is!" What was she SAYING!? Tyrus's hand shot out again; a more solid hit this time. She couldn't stop a shriek of agony as she felt her lower lip split open; red and gold stars danced across her vision.  
  
"I'm TEN TIMES the man he is!" he roared as she bent double in pain, trying to stifle her own whimpering. "And don't you forget it!" Seizing a handful of her dark hair, he wrenched her head back, so that she was forced to look at him. Her breathing was harsh and ragged. "Finally figured out your place in the world, you whore?"  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth. "Let me go, Tyrus." She was through fighting him; it wasn't worth the price. Pursing her lips in determination, she could feel a droplet of blood running down her chin and wished she could wipe it away. Tyrus glared down at her, his eyes cold and calculating. Was she giving up so quickly?  
  
"Why should I let you go?" his eyebrows raised mockingly, and he made a small gesture with his hand. The men holding her flung her forward suddenly, and she hit the ground...hard. The gravel dug into the palms of her hands, tearing through the tough flesh, and she couldn't push away terrible stinging pain in her hands and knees. Lying face down in the dust - trying her very hardest not to show weakness - she wished for something she'd never wished for before, nor thought she ever would. She wished for Jack.  
  
Tyrus's boot connected with her ribs, sending a sharp wave of pain through her, and she moaned, struggling to find breath. Rolling slowly onto her back, she peered up at him through clouded eyes.  
  
"Answer me!" he demanded, kicking her again.  
  
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer to whoever may have been listening. She could hear Tyrus preparing to give her another swift kick, but she wouldn't wait for it. In a second, she was on her feet and running, shoving her way through the stunned ring of thugs. She'd already made it around the corner and halfway down that street when she heard his enraged orders.  
  
"What are you looking at!? After her!" It was too late for them, however. She was free....or so she thought.  
  
She didn't see the shadowy figure until she collided head-on with it, knocked backward off her feet. Shuffling back, she shied away as the stranger gently grabbed her shoulder, hauling her onto her feet once more. Acting under instinct, she tried to jerk away, swinging a punch at the stranger, who caught her wrist easily.  
  
"Calm down, love, I'm not going to hurt you!" as soon as she heard the voice, she stopped struggling abruptly, peering uncertainly at him.  
  
"Jack?" the flickering firelight from the torch-lamps played across Jack's oh-so-familiar features, and she smiled - relieved - at his confused expression.  
  
"Ryenne!?" he studied her disbelievingly, a strange sort of light in his eyes. "What are you doing here!? You're.....alive!"  
  
A shout somewhere in the distance reminded her of what was following her. "Of course I'm alive." Tugging his jacket sleeve, she tried to hurry him along in the direction she'd been going. "Listen, we have to get out of here! They're after me, and -"  
  
"What? Who's after you, love?" his eyes alighted on her bleeding lip. "What happened!?"  
  
Pulling his arm impatiently, she glanced at the corner around which she'd come. "I'll explain later. We need to go!"  
  
Something glittered in his eyes and his face changed, still examining her bloodied lip. "No, I'll - "  
  
She shook her head frantically, her eyes flitting from him to the corner and back to him. "We can't fight them off! There's too many!" Her panicked expression must have convinced him, somehow, because he followed without further protest as they hurried through the shadows, silently making their way back to the safety of the Pearl. 


	22. Thanks

DISCLAIMER: PotC=Not ours. Not surprising, eh?  
  
"You're sure it was her?"  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
The captain sighed with pleasure, a smile lighting up his dark eyes.  
  
"And you made sure to stay in the shadows, merely watching - she does not yet know of our presence here in Port Royale?"  
  
Tyrus tried not to shift guiltily under his captain's scrutiny. He didn't need to know what had happened earlier.  
  
"Of course. I followed her for a bit - she HAS been sailing with the Black Pearl."  
  
The captain grinned as, without looking, he took out a short, serviceable dagger. Tossing it gently, he caught it by the blade without cutting himself. His voice was soft and amused.  
  
"I've always wanted to meet Jack Sparrow. I've heard he's an interesting man."  
  
???  
  
Aboard the Black Pearl, Ryenne was trying - in vain - to fend off a very persistently annoyed Jack Sparrow.  
  
"Go away! My hand are just fine!" a boldfaced lie; they stung madly, and there were still very small pieces of the sharp pebbles stuck in the bleeding wounds.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous!" he snapped, seizing her wrist in the attempts to sponge off one of the cuts. She wrenched away, bearing her teeth and clenching her fist closed. Bad idea.  
  
"Ouch!" she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain. Clicking his tongue at her, Jack reached out with somewhat more gentle hands and pressed the damp rag into her palm. She flinched, but this time did not try to pull away.  
  
"What happened out there?" he asked softly, prying open her other hand and cleaning it as well. "Who was following you?"  
  
Taking a deep breath, Ryenne picked up a scrap of cloth that was lying next to Jack's knee and began to wrap her hand, careful to avoid his eyes.  
  
"Tyrus....." She replied quietly. "Was following me."  
  
His eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Tyrus? But...." his eyes opened wide. "Did he - "  
  
"I'm fine. It doesn't matter." She snapped, ending the conversation abruptly, and they sat in silence for a few tense minutes before he cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
"Ryenne, I...erm......" he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "I wondered if......" she wondered for a horrifying moment if he was going to bring up her recent....suicidal tendencies. "I saw a couple of old friends in town today - "  
  
"YOU have FRIENDS?" she asked nastily, suddenly feeling the need to be sharp-tongued. Jack continued, undaunted. In fact, if anything, his voice seemed more confident, spurred on by her insults.  
  
"And they've extended me an invitation to a banquet they're having tomorrow -"  
  
"So?" she couldn't guess why she suddenly felt like being so rude to him.  
  
"I want you to come with me." He finished, wrapping her other hand tightly in another piece of cloth.  
  
Ryenne's blood suddenly ran cold and she glanced up at him, unsure of whether this was just some sort of joke. He looked serious enough, thought the shadow of a smug smile played upon his lips. Uncertain of what to do, she let out a short laugh, shaking her head.  
  
"A banquet? Me? Don't be ridiculous." Climbing to her feet quickly, she nodded to him and crossed the room in a few strides. "Well, Captain, I'd better be off - "  
  
"I'm serious, Ryenne." He called after her. "You're indebted to me."  
  
Spinning to face him, her eyes narrowed into angry slits, her voice incredulous. "Are you FORCING me to come with you!?"  
  
He grinned impishly. "You make it sound so cruel. It's just a party, Ryenne.....and you DO owe me."  
  
"I - " she began to protest, but there was nothing she could say; he was right. Sighing defeatedly, she turned once more to open the door. "Fine." Her fingers closed on the handle -  
  
"I'm not through talking to you, yet."  
  
"Oh?" her eyebrows raised sarcastically. "Pray tell, what else is there to say?"  
  
He looked suddenly uneasy, though the traces of his haughty smile remained. "I don't want to see - or hear - you doing anything like you did again."  
  
"Did what?" Of course, she knew perfectly well what he was talking about.  
  
"You DO realize that without Quinn or I, you would have died."  
  
"I think that was the general idea."  
  
"Indeed." He said wryly. Then he grew serious. "I don't think you realize how much the boy cares for you. He only left the cabin once - when I ordered him out because he was so tired, another minute and he would have been on the floor."  
  
He paused for a moment to judge the effects of his words upon her. She appeared......surprised? Could it be possible that all this time, she had never noticed Quinn's subtle devotion and constant offering of friendship?  
  
Ryenne seemed about to say something, then - with difficulty - bit her tongue.  
  
"It appears that I'm indebted to BOTH of you, then. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go thank him."  
  
But Jack had one more thing to say as she opened the door to leave.  
  
"You're under no circumstances to go back into - "  
  
And then she was gone.  
  
???  
  
Quinn looked somewhat surprised when Ryenne stepped in he door of their cabin and swept him into a fond hug, patting her awkwardly on the back.  
  
"Er.....do you need something?" he asked as she let him go, a sheepish smile forming on her face.  
  
"Only to tell you....well......thank you, really - "  
  
He shook his head emphatically. "No, there's no need - "  
  
"Yes, there is." Matching his gaze, she said evenly. "I wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for you.....so.....thank you."  
  
She stuck out her hand to shake his, but he merely shrugged and turned away, scrambling around as if looking for something.  
  
"I was merely doing my job."  
  
"But - " she protested, not lowering her hand.  
  
"I - er - didn't know if you'd be spending the night with the captain tonight, so I didn't really make a place....." he said hurriedly, gathering together a few blankets and crossing over to the empty cot that stood on the opposite side of the room.  
  
She blinked, confused, and stared after the lad, narrowing her eyes.  
  
"Why would I be spending the night in the captain's cabin?"  
  
Quinn looked uncomfortable. "Well.....because....er......you know...."  
  
"No, I don't know."  
  
"Aren't....." he began to rub his neck; apparently a nervous habit of his. "Aren't you and the captain.....?"  
  
"Aren't we WHAT?" she demanded, crossing her arms furiously.  
  
"Er..." she could see his ears turning pink. "So, you're NOT going to spend the night in his cabin?"  
  
She had to struggle to keep herself from growling. "No." What had given the lad THAT impression? She hadn't -  
  
Understanding suddenly sunk in.  
  
"Quinn, is this because I was....." she couldn't bring herself to say it, could she? ".....nude?"  
  
He coughed loudly, busying himself with the blankets once more. "That's really none of my business, Miss Caelar."  
  
"Don't call me -"  
  
A sharp knock at the door interrupted her, and she turned to glare at whoever it was that dared to disturb her....but didn't. Jack leaned on the doorway, a wry smile on his face. She could feel her face heating up.  
  
"Am I interrupting something here?"  
  
"No." she answered quickly, willing herself to stop blushing. Had he heard? "Is there anything you need, Captain?"  
  
"Only to tell you that you're not allowed to leave the ship until I return from my errands tomorrow."  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"That," he grinned maliciously. "Is a surprise." 


	23. Errands and Chores

DISCLAIMER: PotC is not ours, nor will it ever be. Rrgh.  
  
Ryenne lay on her cot later that night, listening to Quinn's steady breathing, generally restless. The idea to get up, sneak off the ship and wander aimlessly through town crossed her mind, but she squashed it quickly. If she were to even attempt it, the night watch would spot her in a second, no doubt, and Jack would be furious. Not that she was afraid to make him furious, it was just....  
  
She sighed exasperatedly and rolled onto her stomach. Merely the THOUGHT of Jack exhausted her completely; he was so....so.....enticingly mysterious....but NOT in a good way. Definitely not.  
  
Shaking her head, she tried to compose herself. She was tired, that's all.. She hadn't really thought about Jack THAT way. Not obnoxious, condescending, overly confident, adorable, miserable Jack Sparrow.  
  
Pausing mentally, she ticked off what she'd just thought on her fingers. Had she just.....? No. She buried her face in her pillows and growled; what was WRONG with her all of a sudden? Nothing. She decided firmly. NOTHING was wrong with her. And so, still plagued and tormented by the thoughts of her rebellious, uncooperative mind, she finally gave into her exhaustion and slept.  
  
???  
  
Jack's internal clock woke him early. Unhesitatingly, he stood and dressed, then went on deck, out into the sun's first attempts at weak morning light. Nodding cheerfully at the second mate, Barlowe, who was standing watch, he strode briskly down the gangplank and into Port Royale. Today was going to be a big day for everyone, and he had errands to do.  
  
???  
  
Quinn lay awake on his small, hard pallet, watching Ryenne curiously from across the room. She was breathing lightly, but her sleep was sound; no telltale tossing or moaning betrayed the presence of nightmares. He lay there for as long as he dared, then got up when he had no other choice; it was getting late in the morning, and there was always work to be done on a ship. Even one at port.  
  
After tidying what few possessions the small cabin held, he was on his way out the door when he heard Ryenne stir behind him. Immediately, he turned back. She raised her head slightly, blinking away sleep.  
  
"Where are you off to?"  
  
"I have chores to do. You stay here and rest, still; you're not all recovered from the fever," he replied quietly.  
  
"Blast, Quinn, I'm as recovered as I'll ever be," she snapped back, and he smile despite himself. She was probably right.  
  
"You know what?" she continued, standing and stretching. She had fallen asleep in her clothes, and they were wrinkled and mussed; not that it really mattered. It obviously didn't, to her. "Today, lad, I'm yours. I'm probably hopeless where manual labor is concerned, but I'm more than willing to give you a hand. Just tell me what we're doing, explain how we're doing it, and tell me where to go." She grinned, watching amusedly as he comprehended what she'd just said.  
  
"But -"  
  
She forestalled his protests with a raised hand.  
  
"No buts."  
  
Still, he felt he must at least TRY to deter her, impossible though that seemed.  
  
"Miss Caelar -"  
  
Now she stamped her foot petulantly, almost like a child. Her look of mock anguish had the desired effect: he had no choice but to laugh.  
  
"How many times must I tell you to call me Ryenne? JUST Ryenne. Nothing more, nothing less." With that, she placed a firm hand on his shoulder and steered him out of the cabin, closing the weathered wooden door behind them.  
  
Quinn had the vague feeling that both his pride and innate sense of decorum should be stung, but he was too amazed by her antics to care. He had the feeling that his chores today would be much more interesting than usual....  
  
And, feeling pleased with herself for having so successfully put the boy at ease, Ryenne reflected that helping with his day's work really was the perfect solution to her current problem: it would help her forget about Jack, at least for a while, while allowing her to keep her promise to that infernal man. At least until that evening, it would be impossible for her to leave the ship.  
  
???  
  
By lunchtime, Ryenne was sorely regretting her offer to help Quinn with his duties. For all the times he'd tagged aimlessly along on her heels, she'd never dreamed he'd have so many chores. They'd already made breakfast, washed dishes, swabbed the deck (twice), and now they were peeling a huge pile of potatoes to prepare for the crew's dinner. And, what was worse, Quinn was quite the perfectionist, insisting the job wasn't finished unless it was finished properly, and to him, 'properly' meant perfectly; her knuckles were red and bleeding from all the scrubbing she'd been doing. It was going to be a long day.  
  
Already sporting several cuts from the knife she was using, and half- sick of the smell, she nearly cried when Quinn brought out another pail's worth of potatoes for the peeling.  
  
"How do you make time for all this, lad?" she grumbled, stabbing the knifepoint into the table. "You never seemed THIS busy."  
  
He shrugged, a small smile upon his face as he grabbed another potato and his knife. "It's not so bad....there's always something to do."  
  
"That's just the problem! There's too much to do!"  
  
"I manage." The corner of his mouth twitched, and his smile broadened slightly. Curious, Ryenne raised an eyebrow, ripping her knife from the table and setting to work again.  
  
"What're you smiling at? You're not laughing at me, are you?"  
  
"No." the smile vanished. "It's nothing."  
  
She shook her head disbelievingly. "Come on, boy, you can tell me."  
  
"It's nothing. Really." His suddenly hard tone of voice surprised her, and she didn't press any further, though she was still quite curious.  
  
A few minutes of silence passed between them, and Ryenne shifted uncomfortably, glancing at him furtively: the shadow of a grin was back. Smiling herself, she looked away. *Fine, keep your secrets....I'll find out soon enough.*  
  
???  
  
Midday found Captain Jack Sparrow in a situation he had never been in before - and this time, all of his wit and worldliness were useless to him.  
  
He was in the shop of Port Royale's most prodigious seamstress; or rather, he was standing OUTSIDE the shop of Port Royale's most prodigious seamstress, because he hadn't yet worked up the nerve to go in. But such an odd, uncomfortable errand as this was made no easier by procrastination. But, still, as he leaned against the outside wall of the shop across the street, his arms crossed, staring perplexedly at the mannequins in the window, he couldn't figure out why he had come at all. It had just occurred to him that he had no idea what Ryenne's measurements were, nor any of the current fashions. This sort of thing found him lost, and he knew it quite well. However, if he turned back now - even if only to retrieve Ryenne to bring along - it would make him look incompetent.....and he was NOT incompetent.  
  
Taking a deep, reassuring breath, he adjusted the lapels of his coat and strode across the street to the door of the seamstress's shop, and - hesitating on a moment - pulled it open. The overpowering scent of several different ladies' perfumes washed over him in a tidal wave of flowery odor. Resisting the terrible urge to sneeze, he glanced uneasily at the several well-dressed women who were staring coldly at him, and realized how incredibly out-of-place he was at the moment.  
  
He didn't get time to ponder that, however, as a very large, very frilly, very PINK something nearly bowled him over, screeching in an unnervingly high-pitched voice.  
  
"Get out! GET OUT!" he was nearly choking from all the different perfumes....or perhaps it was the large pair of hands encircling his neck. "I don't want BRIGANDS in my shop! OUT!"  
  
"MADAM!" he coughed, ducking away. "Madam, I ASSURE you, I intend to PAY for anything I take out of this shop today!"  
  
The woman paused a moment, unsure of whether or not to believe him, then seemed to come to a decision, pasting a sycophantic smile onto her face. Stepping away from him, she took out a very flowery-looking handkerchief and shook it at him, dusting off his coat as though some imaginary dirt or dust had suddenly appeared there.  
  
"Oh, so sorry, sir!" she cried, looking falsely apologetic. "Forgive me, I must have mistaken you for - "  
  
"It's not a problem. Really." He replied, brushing her off and taking a few steps away, completely taken aback by her sudden change in attitude towards him. She was just as bad as Ryenne......if not WORSE. "I was just wondering if you could -"  
  
These were the words she had obviously been waiting for.  
  
"Just say the word, sir, we have everything you need!"  
  
Jack cleared his throat awkwardly. "I.....er....well....I need a dress," noticing the slightly quizzical look on her face, he felt the need to explain himself further. ".....but not for me."  
  
She laughed; a noise excruciatingly painful to the ears. "Obviously not, sir." He could tell, however, that she had doubted him for a moment. Positively insulting. "So, exactly what are you looking for."  
  
That one caught him slightly off-guard. What was he looking for? Hadn't he just told her that? Completely confused, he looked around the shop for anything that might help him; what COULD help him? All he saw were dresses.  
  
"Well.....we're going to a banquet..." He mumbled, wondering if that was in any way related to what she might have meant. It must've been good enough, as the enormous woman started nodding enthusiastically, her many chins wobbling unattractively.  
  
"Yes. So, you'll be wanting something elegant, then." It wasn't a question, but he felt the need to answer it, nonetheless.  
  
"Yes. Something elegant." He'd already known THAT! Why was he feeling so bewildered? *It's all this damn perfume......* he thought to himself, wishing he could step out into the fresh air again.  
  
But, it was a futile hope. Before he had even finished speaking, the seamstress's (he could only assume that it was the rather frightening one in the pink) assistants were rushing about, filling their arms with swaths of multi-hued and patterned fabrics. He stared at the bundles of satins and silks with sinking spirits.  
  
"Er, actually, we need the dress tonight." Could they sew a dress that quickly? He doubted it. The woman in pink didn't look perplexed in the least, however. Dismissing her assistants with a wave of her hand, she hooked her arm through his, and (rather bodily, he thought) escorted him to the other side of the shop, where several finished dresses already stood on mannequins. Stopping abruptly in their midst, she stepped away from him and gestured expansively, a simpering smile on her face.  
  
"And, where is the lady this dress is meant for?" she glanced over his shoulder, as though he may have had a young woman hiding behind him the entire time. He coughed.  
  
"Well, she's...." *At the dock, probably aboard my ship, stewing. Yes, I have a ship. I'm a pirate, didn't I mention? Well, are you going to call the militia, or do you want to escort me to the gallows yourself, you great pork pie?* He felt very uncomfortable all of a sudden. "....not here."  
  
The woman seemed unfazed, and Jack vaguely wondered what it WOULD take to faze her. "What are the young lady's measurements, then?"  
  
HER MEASUREMENTS!? "Er....well, she's about this tall...." He held up a hand, estimating Ryenne's height. The woman's eyebrows raised critically, making him flush slightly. "And, er.....she's about...." He held his hands a span apart, vaguely guessing the size of Ryenne's waist. This was difficult, as she only wore loose-fitting clothing, and the he'd only seen her - NO. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Things like that were best thought about later.  
  
Or never.  
  
Glancing up at the seamstress sheepishly, he was oddly pleased to see a look of surprise and disbelief on her face. Blinking at him as though unsure of what to say, she placed a hand to her enormous bosom and smoothed her skirts fretfully with the other. The sycophantic smile had faded somewhat.  
  
"Oh...my..." she said softly. He tried to treat her to the impish smile Ryenne found so annoying, but only managed to twist his face into a painful sort of grimace; he'd never felt as unprepared and ignorant as he did now.  
  
But, annoyingly enough, the pink-clad seamstress's perplexity didn't last long. Adopting a decidedly brisk, confident air, she pasted her smile back on and rubbed the palms of her hands together.  
  
"Well, we'll have to do our best, then, won't we? Yes..." she nodded condescendingly. "Now, show me the lady's measurement's again." 


	24. An Awkward Situation

DISCLAIMER: We don't own PotC. That's why we have a disclaimer.  
  
Ryenne sighed, relieved, as she dried the final dish from dinner and placed it neatly atop the towering stack. Wiping off her hands and dropping the dishrag onto the table, she turned to smile at Quinn, feeling somewhat contented. Surely the worst of the work was over.....  
  
"Right. Well, I'm off to clean the brig." Quinn announced cheerily, as though proclaiming some grand and glorious event. Ryenne's heart promptly sank into her shoes, and she slouched into a chair, suddenly feeling very drained.  
  
"Clean the brig?" she repeated dully. The brig was - by far - her least favorite place on the ship, and she didn't relish the thought of having to visit it again.  
  
Her loathing must've shown on her face, because Quinn laughed suddenly. "Don't worry, Ryenne," he smiled warmly. "I don't expect you to help me with this."  
  
"But, I -"  
  
"No. You've helped me quite enough." It wasn't meant to sound unkind in the least, though his next words held a slight taste of bitterness. "Besides, I expect you've got a busy enough night planned for you tonight."  
  
His tone - and not his meaning - struck first.  
  
"Quinn, Jack and I -" she explained heavily.  
  
"I've taken the liberty of getting a bath ready for you," he turned away, bending down as if searching for something. "In case you wanted to freshen up."  
  
When had he found time to do THAT? And furthermore, how had he found out about the banquet? She opened her mouth to ask, but all that came out was, "You'll make sure no one comes into the cabin?"  
  
"Of course." His voice was emotionless. "Well, I'd better be off."  
  
He bustled past her - out the door - and she didn't even have the chance to say 'thank you' before he was out of sight. She sat a moment, confused and unsure of what she should do. But, finally - having no other real option - she stood and began to make her way to the cabin she and Quinn shared. Throwing the door open wearily, she wasn't surprised in the least to see a large wooden basin full of steaming water sitting in the middle of the room. In fact, with a second glance, she even realized she'd seen it somewhere before... Ah, yes. It was the one she'd fallen into, her very first night on the Pearl. How quaint.  
  
Closing the door with a sharp snap, she walked toward the tub, dipping a tentative finger in: the water was pleasantly warm and clean. A small stool stood next to the tub sporting a bar of sweet-smelling soap, a fluffy white towel, and a clear, glass bottle of...  
  
"Rose-scented bath oils?" she snorted. "I wonder where Jack filched THAT from..."  
  
It was impressive how much extra work Quinn had done, simply for her benefit, and it seemed unfair not to make use of it.  
  
Casting a wary glance at the door, she began to undo the buttons of her shirt, once again feeling a familiar pang of discomfort, much enhanced by her recent.....escapades.  
  
Trying not to think of that, she shivered slightly and slid into the tub, the fresh scrapes on her hands and knees stinging momentarily. Nonetheless, the effect was still pleasurable; weeks - maybe even months - of dirt and grime melting away in the comfortably warm water. Leaning her head back, she sighed, feeling more contented than she had in a long while.  
  
???  
  
Jack emerged from the seamstress's shop two hours after he'd entered it, toting several paper-wrapped parcels and feeling generally exhausted. He'd found a dress, alright. He'd also been wheedled into buying several other 'necessary accessories'. Excessive accessories, in his opinion. At first, it had only been a pair of shoes. Reasonable enough; Ryenne couldn't go to a high society party in her boots, could she? And besides, he thought obliging to that would save time, and get him out of there faster.  
  
He was wrong.  
  
From shoes, came gloves. Long, white satin gloves: very expensive. Also reasonable, though, as Ryenne's freshly torn-up palms weren't exactly a lovely sight.  
  
Then there were the petticoats. Not knowing exactly what a petticoat was, let alone what they were used for, he figured it must be something practical......and buying it would probably satisfy the large woman in pink, and then - perhaps - he would be able to leave. Nope.  
  
Next, it was pantaloons. Confessing that he doubted Ryenne owned a pair of those, he bought one, the vague impression he was buying undergarments plaguing him slightly.  
  
He had to draw the line at the corset. Having had several experiences with the things, he had deemed them rather dangerous and wouldn't have CONSIDERED forcing Ryenne to wear one. He wasn't trying to kill her, was he?  
  
So, finally getting the pink woman to stop harassing him, he had everything packaged (it would do him no good to be seen carrying a dress and woman's undergarments in broad daylight) and paid every last cent (expensive, though it was) just as he had promised. And now, as he walked down the crowded streets of Port Royale with the late afternoon sun in his eyes and a slight breeze making him feel chilly, he felt rather ridiculous. He certainly hoped all this effort was worthwhile in the end.  
  
Exhausted and irritable, though he was, a part of him felt excited. He would get the chance to catch up with some old friends, yes, but he would also be taking a slight risk - as a pirate - and that's what enticed him: a pirate walking directly under the nose of the government that had once held him in the noose. Danger...... And he had an excuse to keep Ryenne busy and under close watch. So far, he hadn't seen any sign of anyone who might've resembled the old crew members she described, but one couldn't be too careful......  
  
"D'ye need any help there, Cap'n?" Jack smiled as Gibbs hurried down the gangplank to relieve him of a few parcels, but pulled away.  
  
"No, thank you, mate. I can manage it." Brushing past, he made his way to the stairs leading below deck, where Ryenne and Quinn's cabin was located. Gibbs didn't bother trying to follow.  
  
Turning a sharp corner, Jack bumped into Quinn, who was on his way to the upper decks, nearly dropped several of the packages in the process. Shifting them more steadily in his arms, he nodded to the boy, who looked tired and perplexed.  
  
"Lad, is Ryenne in her cabin?"  
  
Quinn nodded. "Yes, Captain, but she doesn't wish to be disturb -"  
  
"Thank you very much, lad." Jack interrupted, sweeping past.  
  
"But -"  
  
Quinn's protests were no use, however. Holding the wrapped parcels deftly in one arm, Jack threw open the door to their cabin without knocking. And, when he was greeted by a shriek from Ryenne, he was so shocked that he promptly dropped everything, scattering it every which way. Cursing in frustration, he glanced up just in time to see her duck her head her head underwater.  
  
???  
  
Ryenne was mortified. She couldn't believe her terrible luck, to have JACK - of all people - walk in on her like THIS. Every time she saw him, it seemed to be placed in a more embarrassing situation than the last. Even under the surface of the soapy-warm bathwater, she could feel herself blushing.  
  
"Get out!" she shouted, not bothering to emerge from the water. Jack's throaty laugh still reached her ears, though muffled somewhat.  
  
"Sorry, love, can't hear you!"  
  
Bursting her head out of the water and wiping a layer of rose-scented bubbles off her face, she directed a cold glare at him. "I said 'get out'!"  
  
"What for, love?" So, he thought it was funny? Catching her while she was so vulnerable and then insulting her further by using that ridiculous pet name: the idea infuriated her.  
  
"Because, I'm......" she couldn't say it; not to him. The thought of plunging back underwater crossed her mind. "Well, I'm....."  
  
He smiled impishly. "I don't see the problem there. After all, it wouldn't be the first time I've seen you naked."  
  
Ryenne's face flushed crimson and her face contorted into a look of supreme rage and indignance. "How DARE you!? I'll - "  
  
"You'll what? Come out of there and punish me for it?"  
  
Her mouth pressed into a tight line and a sudden splash of water made him jump back.....too late.  
  
Brushing bubbles from his chin, he raised a critical eyebrow. "So, that's how you're going to play, is it?" A smug smile played hesitantly around her lips.  
  
Suddenly, Jack lunged forward and snatched up the towel that lay, neatly folded, on the stool next to the tub.  
  
"Hey!" Ryenne shrieked, almost jumping after him, but thinking better of it. "Give that back!"  
  
He made a show of drying off his face and then held the towel between two fingers, dangling it tantalizingly beyond her reach. His impish smile had returned, and it looked as though he was fully enjoying himself.  
  
"I want an apology first."  
  
"An apology!?" she shouted incredulously. He dangled the towel further beyond her reaching fingertips.  
  
"Do you want it or not?"  
  
Biting back a scream of rage, she realized how much at his mercy she was, and pressed her eyes tight shut in frustration. "I'm very sorry." She snapped, gritting her teeth and stretching out her hand.  
  
"I don't think you meant that."  
  
"Jack!" her eyes popped open, only to glare.  
  
He was still grinning. "Say it like you mean it: tell me how handsome and clever I am."  
  
"You're very insecure."  
  
"And you're very nude." Crossing his arms over his chest, he blinked innocently at her. "Well?"  
  
She snorted. "You're just about as handsome and clever as you are charming!"  
  
"Well, that wasn't so hard, now, was it?" he tossed the towel to her, making sure it landed on her head.  
  
"Shut the door!" she ordered. "And don't you dare look!"  
  
"Don't look at what?" he laughed, bending down to gather up the fallen packages and shutting the door with a sharp snap. "The door?"  
  
"You know EXACTLY what I mean!" she hissed, making sure his back was fully turned. Stepping quickly out of the tub, she wrapped the towel firmly around herself, brushing a strand of damp hair out of her face. "What's all that?" she gestured a dripping hand at the packages.  
  
"It's for you." He replied simply, dropping them on her cot and risking a glance in her direction.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For tonight." When she gave him a inquiring look, he explained. "It's a dress, and a few....other things."  
  
"A dress?"  
  
"Yes." He replied coolly. "You didn't expect to go to a high society banquet wearing MY clothes, did you?"  
  
"Well...you're going to be wearing your clothes...." she spluttered.  
  
"If you don't want to wear a dress, you can always go in that towel; it looks stunning on you." He said jokingly. But, she wondered if he really WAS joking, and felt suddenly uneasy, pulling it more securely around herself. Noticing this, he coughed and turned to open the door.  
  
"Well, I'd better go freshen up, myself."  
  
And then, he was gone. 


	25. The Man Who Wasn't Jack

DISCLAIMER: We don't own PotC. Not now, not ever...*sob*  
  
At the door to his cabin, Jack paused for a moment, hand on the knob and a warm blush rising up his neck. It wasn't that he was embarrassed, so to speak, because of the girl...it was just that...well...  
  
A small sound behind him made him turn his head. There in the golden light the sun cast on the deck, stood Quinn.  
  
"I told you, sir." He said, somewhat reproachfully.  
  
"Hmph." Jack grunted, stepping inside his cabin and slamming the door behind him. Had the boy been smiling? No; if anything, he had seemed disappointed in his captain. Well, he had no need to be, Jack thought decisively. "Hmph."  
  
???  
  
Tentatively, Ryenne peeled open the paper wrapping of the parcel that sat atop the heap Jack had left. Holding it up in puzzlement, it took her a moment to realize what, exactly, it was. When she did, a laugh caught in her throat, choking her so that she sputtered in a very undignified way. He had bought petticoats? Calming herself, she unwrapped the next parcel, and then the next, an evil grin spreading across her face. Upset, though she was, at Jack's callous invasion of her privacy, no WONDER he had been so desperate to torment her a bit and thus redeem himself, in his own eyes. For, laid out before her, were the ridiculous petticoats, a pair of satin heeled shoes (that looked rather painful), bloomers, long white gloves, and......  
  
She drew in a deep breath, lifting the dress itself from the crinkly, white paper. It was a deep, majestic, midnight blue, made from a soft material she didn't recognize that slid gracefully under her skin when she ran her hand over it. The feel of it on her fingers brought back memories of when she was young and had had to stand still for hours while being fitted with the 'latest fashions'. In England, all the children were dressed like miniature adults, uncomfortable and stifling, though the clothing often was.  
  
Still, even though it had been years since she had worn anything finer than rough cotton trousers and serviceable shirts, she felt a little of the long-forgotten girlish delight at the arrayed beauty come back to her. Feeling sorry for all that Jack must have gone through obtaining this, she began to dress, calling on those very same memories to aid her.  
  
.  
  
It took awhile, but eventually she was finished with the arduous donning of the undergarments, and was ready for the dress. She slid it over her head, pulling it down and admiring the way it fell smoothly over the petticoats, who gave it a small amount of shape. It was plain, but not to an extreme degree: it simply was not overdone, and she appreciated Jack's discernment in choosing it.  
  
She was having two problems, however, the first being the sleeves. They just wouldn't stay up! Every time she tried to fix them, they very promptly fell right back down again. Were they too big? She had no way of telling, and it was getting frustrating. It was actually starting to seem to her as if they had been designed to stay off her shoulders - but no, because what kind of idiot would wear something like THAT? Either way, it was beyond her.  
  
The second problem was the back. There was a long line of miniscule pearl buttons, and, twist around as hard as she might, they were impossible for her to do up. These she KNEW had been designed like this, because she very clearly remembered always having servants to help with the more infuriating parts of dressing. Small buttons had always been one of these.  
  
Wrenching her arms brutally behind her back, as far as she could, she managed to grasp one of the middle buttons with one had - and found that it was pointless for her to even TRY, because she couldn't even hold the sides together long enough to slip the button into the hole. Letting out a small scream of frustration, she did a strange sort of dance around the cramped confines of the cabin, venting her frustration at the obvious stupidity of the dressmakers.  
  
"Perhaps my concerns are ill-placed, but I certainly hope you aren't planning to do THAT at the banquet tonight...." The intruder let his statement trail off as she whirled angrily to face him, livid at Jack's SECOND invasion of her decency.  
  
"How dare you - "  
  
But it wasn't Jack. It couldn't be Jack.  
  
"Who ARE you!?" she shrieked, panicking. The stranger took a startled step backwards, eyes wide, and she seized that opportunity to rush at him and slam the door shut. Then, she leaned against it, feeling the rough wood pressed against the skin of her back, left bare by the as-yet unjoined sides of her dress.  
  
Outside, there was silence for a long moment, until Jack's voice spoke again. It was somewhat muffled-sounding, as if he were holding a hand to his mouth.  
  
"Open the door, love. It's just me." He sounded distinctly annoyed.  
  
She hesitated for a second, unsure, then pulled it open a crack and peeked out. The man-who-was-not-Jack was standing there nursing his nose, from which a small stream of blood trickled slowly. Ryenne immediately snatched her tattered kerchief up from where it had laid on the rickety table and handed it to him. Having done this, she stood back warily.  
  
"Thank you," he said rather nasally, pinching his nose to stem the flow. It was almost unbelievable how different he looked, and she couldn't help but stare in fascination, now that she could see that it WAS him.  
  
Gone were the tatty clothes, the sagging, worn boots. Gone was the typical sword-and-gun ensemble he usually wore. And, most of all, perhaps, gone was the long, black hair with the charms that she had found so interesting braided into it. It was, instead, swept back into a smooth ponytail, and, combined with his long black coat and freshly kohl-lined eyes, the effect was quite sophisticated and dashing. Aside from, of course, the look he was shooting her over the now bloody handkerchief.  
  
"Er," she said eloquently. He raised an eyebrow. "Well, you startled me!" she protested feebly. His nosebleed had stopped, and he seemed unsure what to do with the kerchief. She took it, holding it by two fingers and depositing it in a convenient corner. "It's your own fault, really, and I'm sorry for slamming the door in your face, but - "  
  
"I didn't say anything, Ryenne." He reminded her gently.  
  
"So?" she shot back, feeling rather stupid. He beckoned for her to come closer. "What?"  
  
"It appears you need some help, perhaps. I just thought I'd be gallant, seeing how I look the part and all."  
  
She suddenly remembered the back of her dress.  
  
"Oh." Although her first instinct was to adamantly refuse his help, common sense won out after a surprisingly brief struggle. After all, she certainly couldn't do the buttons by herself. "Bloody seamstress," she muttered, stalking over to him.  
  
"Absolutely," he agreed, fiddling with the buttons. "The woman was positively daft."  
  
"Was she? How terribly unsurprising."  
  
"Oh yes. She tried to kill me as soon as I set foot in her shop - seemed to think I was some kind of vagabond, out to steal the clothes off her back. And a very large back it was, too," he added as an afterthought. "She was huge."  
  
Ryenne tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh, for the image of Jack at odds and grappling with a large, fat seamstress was too much for her. She actually had nearly forgotten how uncomfortable she should have been at this moment, until Jack tugged a little too hard on one of the buttons, and a memory was triggered with such force that she gasped at the sheer intensity of it.  
  
.  
  
Her back was agony: white flames of pain searing her bleeding flesh. But, still, the whip kept coming down upon her, lacing wounds upon wounds, until she thought her skin would be torn from her. Feeling her knees buckle beneath her, she crumpled, aware that the only thing holding her up was the rope binding her wrists to the mast.  
  
"Are you through, Captain?" they jeered, never pausing in her torture.  
  
Coughing as she felt the familiar steely-salty taste of blood rush into her mouth, she tried to force her legs to work: she couldn't give up.  
  
"No!"  
  
.  
  
"Ryenne! Are you alright?"  
  
Ryenne blinked, her eyes stinging with tears she hadn't known she was shedding, and she found herself staring into Jack's mahogany-brown eyes; eyes that were shining with concern. It was only now that she realized he was the only thing holding her up, his arm wrapped tight around her waist.  
  
"Um..." She blinked again, confused and tense. "What happened?"  
  
He looked almost as bewildered as she felt.  
  
"You were falling..." he trailed off, still staring into her eyes, and she was suddenly quite aware of how close they were. Pulling her feet back underneath herself, she edged away, brushing her skirts down nervously. He coughed. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Yes-yes, of course I am," she stuttered. He took hold of her arm and pulled her around so that he could finish the buttons. Docilely, she let him, flinching when he touched one of the scars.  
  
"What are these?" he asked softly.  
  
"Nothing that concerns you."  
  
He snorted. "When a woman suddenly faints in my arms for no discernable reason, and it then becomes clear that it has something to do with the fact that her back is heavily covered with whip scars, then yes, love, it does concern me."  
  
Ryenne was nonplussed at his deduction of the facts.  
  
"Well there you go, then, since you're so clever."  
  
"So, they whipped you, and then dumped you into the sea? How terribly callous of them," he said, tsking. If not for the fact that she needed his help, she gladly would have shut the door on his nose again without a qualm. Perhaps she would, once all her buttons were fastened.  
  
"Indeed." She snapped, fumbling with the shoulders once more, and grunting in frustration. "Jack, I think there's something wrong with these sleeves: they won't stay up."  
  
"They weren't meant to." He replied simply, fastening the last button and taking a step back. "Now, turn around. I want to get a look at you."  
  
Ignoring his condescending tone, she immediately obliged - without thinking - and spun around once, to give him the full effect. (This was something she used to have done for her dressing maids; an old, second- nature, it seemed.) An hour's time had really done it's effect: her usually tousled black hair now hung straight and smooth down her shoulders, shining like a raven's wing, and her skin was a lovely, clean, golden shade of tan. The dress, itself, was beautiful, though it was a little too low-cut for her taste - too boldly displaying areas she would rather have not - and hung a little too long, the hem dragging slightly on the floor. But, beautiful, nonetheless.  
  
Jack's mouth hung open slightly, his eyes glowing with.....surprise?  
  
"Something amiss, Captain?" Ryenne laughed, adopting his impish grin for a scant moment. "Or do I simply leave you speechless?"  
  
He coughed, trying to compose himself....and failing.  
  
"You look..."  
  
"Ridiculous, I know. There's no need to rub it in," Bending a little, she picked up the white gloves, waving them in his face. "It's ungentlemanly."  
  
Shaking his head slowly, he caught her hand, attempting to bring it to his lips. "No, I was going to say - " She snatched her hand away, turning and seizing the ridiculous-looking shoes.  
  
"Is that altogether necessary?" she hissed, tugging the gloves on unceremoniously and smoothing the bodice of the dress. "It is a little bit tight, though." Misinterpreting his puzzled look, she gestured to herself, explaining. "The dress, that is."  
  
"It looks fine." He was beginning to sound slightly impatient. "No, it looks - "  
  
"Don't tell me: I like to encourage the delusion that I actually -"  
  
"Stop interrupting me!" he ordered, furrowing his eyebrows in frustration. "I'm trying to tell you how beautiful you look!"  
  
Ryenne paused in slipping on one of her shoes, completely taken aback by Jack's outburst, her eyebrows raising considerably. Apparently quite surprised as well, Jack stood rigid, a mixture of confusion and anger on his face. A moment passed where all that was to be heard was the gentle sloshing of waves against the sides of the ship: neither could think of anything to say. Until......  
  
"Er...." She slid on the shoes quickly, rising to her feet. "Thank you."  
  
???  
  
The look of shock and bewilderment Quinn treated Ryenne to when she stepped onto the topmost deck of the Pearl kept her mind busy halfway through town as she walked silently beside Jack, shivering slightly from the chill breeze that clung to the frosty night air. At first, she'd been somewhat amused by the reaction she'd earned; after all, how often did one see an entire ship's crew stop and stare in awe and amazement, simply because a woman was wearing a dress? And then she'd seen the look in Quinn's eyes: shock, betrayal, jealousy, and the grim satisfaction in proving that his theories were true. She knew - despite everything she'd tried to explain - he still thought that she and Jack were.....well....more than they were.  
  
Sighing frustratedly, she wondered how she had possibly managed to overlook the pain and longing in Quinn's eyes all those times before. Jack was obviously right: the boy cared for her far more than she knew.... But he was still only a boy! How could -  
  
"Ouch!" her train of thought was broken abruptly as she stumbled on the heel of her not-so-dainty shoes for the fourth time that evening. Massaging her sore ankles, she growled in frustration and kicked off the satin torture-devices. "That is IT!"  
  
"Hm? What are you doing now?" Jack groaned, picking the shoes up and trying to force them back into her hands. "Put them back on!"  
  
"If you're so bloody fond of them, YOU put them on!" she hissed, crossing her arms adamantly. "It's just not practical to even bother TRYING to walk in those!"  
  
"But, you can't go to the party barefoot," he said reasonably. "They won't let you in!"  
  
"You just watch me!" hitching up her skirts in sudden agitation, she picked up her pace, not so much as flinching as she trod upon the sharp gravel. Jogging to keep up with her, Jack clenched the discarded shoes in his hands, an irritated look upon his face.  
  
"Ryenne, you're being ridiculous!"  
  
"No, those shoes are what is ridiculous!"  
  
Grabbing her arm, he offered the shoes, a pleading look on his face. "Please. Just put them on."  
  
Raising an eyebrow critically, she sighed, a half-smile working it's way across her lips. "Does it really mean that much to you?"  
  
He looked ponderous a moment, then shook his head, leaning close to her, as though he were about to divulge a secret. "No; but if you don't, I'll just tell everyone about that charming little birthmark on your back." He whispered, running a finger up her spine.  
  
"Give me those!" she snapped, offended, snatching the shoes away from him and shoving him away with her free hand as he began to chuckle maliciously. "You're so - "  
  
"Charming, yes, I know."  
  
"- Infuriating." Throwing him an icy glare, she rammed her feet back into the dangerous shoes, stumbling a few steps before regaining her precarious balance. "Are we nearly there?"  
  
He pointed to a large, white house just down the street, where a small crowd of people were gathered around an open doorway, chattering merrily, and Ryenne's heart suddenly locked up in her chest; it had been years since she'd last been to a party like this. The barrier between the lives of Ryenne Caelar and Carolyn Rutherford was becoming increasingly thinner, and it upset her. Glancing at Jack, who looked completely nonplussed (of course, he would), she tried to compose herself....and stopped dead in her tracks, as though an invisible barrier stood in front of her, far too nervous and fearful to take another step.  
  
"Are you alright, Ryenne?" he asked, pausing to turn and glance at her. Her stomach knotted.  
  
"I'm..." she didn't want to lose face in front of him, but she couldn't bring herself to move. "I'm frightened."  
  
A flicker of something (sympathy? She wondered) passed through his eyes and he strode back to her, a gentle smile on his face. Taking hold of her hand, he twined his fingers through hers and kissed it lightly.  
  
"You'll be fine, don't worry." Brushing a strand of hair away from her face in a surprisingly tender way, he added, as an afterthought. "I'll be right there beside you."  
  
His suddenly affectionate manner should have bothered her, at least slightly, but....it didn't. And, strangely comforted, she nodded weakly, and let him lead her toward the other banqueters; strangers who lived in a world she had long since forgotten. 


	26. The Secret

DISCLAIMER: We don't own PotC. No we don't.  
  
Will Turner stood at the door, welcoming guests as they entered. Some were personal friends of his, but most were high-ranking acquaintances of the governor – always polite, of course, but still unable to completely hide their surprise at being welcomed by someone who was, until recently, a mere blacksmith. But, he tried not to take any of it personally; they could not help the small, unintentional slighting they did without thought.  
  
On the other side of the room stood Elizabeth – he could see her clearly by turning his head only a few inches. She looked especially beautiful, he thought, surrounded by the ladies that were drawn to her like moths to a flame nearly as soon as they stepped in the door. Their talk was lively, even bound to the rules of social etiquette as they were; Elizabeth, at least, had thrown away her demure façade after the adventure that had truly brought them together in the first place.  
  
So absorbed was he in watching her, he was completely unaware that more guests had arrived until one cleared his throat loudly. Apologizing, Will turned back to the door – and laughed in pleasure at the new arrival.  
  
"Jack! It's wonderful to see you!"  
  
But Jack looked behind him, drawing someone else forward, and, for the first time, Will saw that he was accompanied by a woman of about Elizabeth's age, perhaps a year or two older. She had fair features and her hair hung straight and smooth down her shoulders, a direct contrast to most of the other woman at the party, whose hair were piled delicately atop their heads, adorned with ribbons and curls. Her eyes - which were a shade of honey-gold - looked everywhere, save at him. There was a spark of something familiar in those eyes, but Will couldn't remember what it was that made it so, and continued to study her.  
  
Hanging close to Jack as though she might lose him if he moved too far away, she nervously clutched at her satiny blue skirts, obviously not used to them..............so what WAS she used to?  
  
"Will, this is the new crew member I told you about yesterday." Jack said, apparently taking it upon himself to do introductions. "Ryenne Caelar."  
  
Crew member? The girl looked far too small and finely-built to be of any use to a pirate crew. Where had Jack found her? And, more importantly, what was her duty? Telling himself that appearances could be deceiving, he nodded slightly, sticking out his hand.  
  
"Will Turner."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne's head shot up, her eyes widening in shock, and she was unable to keep a hand from flying to her mouth in surprise. "You!?" she asked incredulously, all fear suddenly evaporating.  
  
She couldn't believe what she was seeing: after nearly 13 years............how could it be possible? It couldn't be...............but there he was, that oh-so-familiar bemused look in his honest brown eyes – the only feature she still recognized. No longer the rough-looking, scrawny boy of her childhood, he was lean and muscular, his dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and his fine, well-fitted clothing easily defining his current social status. Had they not been introduced, she would not have recognized him.  
  
Will's eyes shone with curiosity and puzzlement, an apologetic smile spreading across his face. "Have we met before?"  
  
After a long moment of studying him, his bewildered expression finally sunk in, and she realized he'd asked her a question. Had they met? They'd more than just MET; they'd been best friends for 6 years! So, he didn't recognize her? She supposed that was to be expected; she HAD changed drastically since the last time he'd seen her. But if he didn't know who she was, she certainly wasn't going to tell him.  
  
"Oh........no." she replied slowly, as though taking a closer look at him and reconsidering her outburst, a (not-so-fake) look of badly-concealed embarrassment on her face. "I'm terribly sorry; I must've mistaken you for someone else............"  
  
He nodded politely and she noticed that he was still waiting to shake her hand. Laughing nervously, she offered it, blushing slightly when he brought her gloved fingers to his lips. His eyes never left her; measuring her up, silently speculating how he'd known her.  
  
"Are you sure we haven't met? You seem somewhat familiar."  
  
"Quite sure." She said, almost too quickly, a sheepish grin forming on her own face. She wasn't entirely certain why, but she didn't want him to remember her, didn't want to have to tell him what she'd gone through all these years, didn't want to know if he still desired her friendship – if he'd missed her, the way she'd missed him, ever since she was young............  
  
He still didn't look entirely convinced, but – this time – held silent. Jack, whom she'd forgotten was there, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze (he obviously thought she was still consumed with nerves) and cleared his throat ostentatiously.  
  
"Well, we'd better go pay our respects to the hostess, then." He said, with the air of a child being sent off to do studies, but Ryenne caught the outrageous wink he threw at Will.  
  
Laughing good-naturedly, Will clapped him on the shoulder, an eager – and, somehow, relieved – expression on his face. It was apparent that he'd been searching for an excuse to leave his post for quite some time. "I'll join you."  
  
.  
  
The hostess, it turned out, was only a girl no older than Ryenne herself – twenty, perhaps twenty one – who was surrounded by a crowd of other young ladies, all with fawning smiles on their faces. She had a kind, comfortable look about her that Ryenne couldn't help but like, and was, no doubt, the reason she seemed to be so adored. Smiling over the rim of her wineglass, her eyes lit up when she saw them approaching, and she said something, causing the crowd around her to part and scatter.  
  
"It's good to see you again, Jack." She said warmly, embracing him and planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. "And who is this you've got with you?" she turned to Ryenne, a pleasant smile gracing her features.  
  
Ryenne could feel Jack's arm snaking around her waist as he replied, and her heart fluttered fretfully; what sort of impression was he trying to give them? Or did he really think she was THAT nervous?  
  
"This is Ryenne Caelar, the new crewman I spoke of the other day." So, he'd been talking about her, eh? What exactly had he said? Turning to her, he gestured to the young woman. "Ryenne, this is Will's wife, Elizabeth."  
  
She froze in shock, almost unable to keep her mouth from dropping open. Will's WIFE!? He was MARRIED!? As if to punctuate the statement, Will crossed to Elizabeth and kissed her lightly, causing Ryenne to flush in anger and surprise. Aware that her anger was unjustified, and – at the moment – unexplainable, even to herself, she lowered her eyes, coughing awkwardly.  
  
"Will, not in front of Jack's guest!" Elizabeth chided, pulling away with a small frown, though it was obvious she wasn't upset in the least. Taking a small sip of her wine, she looped her arm through his and turned to Jack, looking business-like. "Well, you DID mention a new crew member yesterday, but I don't recall you mentioning that your new crew member was a woman."  
  
So, he hadn't really spoken of her at all; at least, not in a very specific sense. She was, in any case, getting increasingly more curious as to what he'd said..............  
  
"Well, I........." Jack spluttered, sounding very undignified. "I..............wanted to surprise you."  
  
What?  
  
"You certainly did." Will replied, looking somewhat amused. Ryenne wished they would stop discussing her as if she weren't there, or were some sort of ignorant sort of thing that was incapable of intelligent speech...........like a rock.............or..........something.  
  
As though reading her mind, Elizabeth suddenly turned, flashing that friendly smile once more. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Caelar." She laughed, not unkindly. "And pleased to see that Jack has a lady-friend."  
  
Jack's hand abruptly dropped from her waist as they both rushed to deny the statement.  
  
"I'm not – "  
  
"She isn't – "  
  
Elizabeth looked perplexed. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to offend you."  
  
Glancing at Jack, Ryenne TRIED to smile, explaining. "No, there's no offense taken, it's only that.............well, Jack and I are NOT – "  
  
"I understand." Elizabeth nodded, and Ryenne got the distinct feeling that she truly DID understand. "So, where did you come from, Miss Caelar?" she asked, changing the subject quickly.  
  
"Oxford," Ryenne replied without thinking. "England."  
  
"Really?" Will exclaimed, making her realize the huge mistake she'd made. "Maybe that's where I recognize you from. Did you know Lord and Lady Rutherford?"  
  
Wishing she'd thought out her answer before speaking, she pretended to look ponderous and shook her head. "No; the name doesn't sound familiar."  
  
He looked crestfallen. "Oh. Never mind, then."  
  
She'd never felt so guilty for lying to someone in her entire life, and half her life had been BUILT upon lies. At the same time, she wanted nothing less than to reveal her old identity: she wasn't Carolyn Rutherford anymore, and hadn't been for nearly 6 years.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Jack sighed, eyeing Elizabeth's wine covetously. The situation was far more uncomfortable than he'd anticipated, and now he wanted to have a quiet word with Ryenne to ask of her former connections to Will, though he knew she would reveal nothing. He was in dire need of a drink. When was anyone going to be decent enough to give him the opportunity to get drunk?  
  
Throwing a sidelong glance at Ryenne, who was squirming with guilt, he self-consciously adjusted the lapels of his coat, trying to catch her eye. Paying him no heed, her gaze shifted from Will to Elizabeth, whom she eyes with a strange mixture of admiration and contempt – both badly masked. Elizabeth didn't seem to notice, however, chatting amiably about the weather, and asking a few trivial questions, to which Ryenne grudgingly replied. Perhaps the happy couple was falling for Ryenne's little game, but he was not.  
  
Clearing his throat loudly, he caught her hand again, and – finally – her eyes. "Well, you can't let us keep you away from your other guests. I'm sure they desire your company as well."  
  
Elizabeth nodded in agreement, but Will looked slightly injured. "You're sure you'll be alright?"  
  
"Oh, yes. We can entertain ourselves for a while." Jack ignored Ryenne's suspicious glare, trying to contain a yelp of pain as she crushed his fingers.  
  
"Come on, Will, dear." Elizabeth said, pointing to a rotund, balding man who had just entered the room. "Look, there's the chaplain!"  
  
Throwing Jack one last mutinous look, Will nodded submissively, and they disappeared into the crowd.  
  
"What're you up to?" Ryenne hissed, as soon as they were out of earshot, wrenching her hand away.  
  
"What're you hiding?" he demanded, grabbing her shoulder and steering her towards the refreshment table. She tried to give the impression of being affronted, but only managed to look surprised and anxious.  
  
"I'm not hiding anything!"  
  
"Liar." Letting go of her arm, he picked up a glass of wine, which she quickly snatched away.  
  
"Give me that."  
  
Taking small, nervous sips, she turned and looked out over the room, obviously ill-at-ease. Rolling his eyes, Jack opted for the direct approach.  
  
"How do you know Will?"  
  
Her answer came too fast.  
  
"I don't."  
  
Pitching his voice low, Jack tried to reign his temper.  
  
"Ryenne, lie to me once more, and when the Black Pearl sets sail again, it'll be short one crewmember."  
  
Even from the side, he could see the conflicting emotions on her face, and how tightly her fingers were wrapped around the stem of the wineglass. Worried it would shatter, he was about to reach out and gently remove it from her hands, when she looked fiercely at him. When she spoke, her voice was harsh."  
  
"Jack, did it ever occur to you that Ryenne Caelar was not the name given to me at birth?"  
  
He didn't flinch at her gaze.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You never asked me before." She said, raising an eyebrow. Jack folded his arms and leaned against the wall, eyes innocently wide. He was desperately relieved that her stormy anger seemed to have passed so quickly.  
  
"I figured you would tell me when you were ready."  
  
"Hmph," she grunted, setting down her glass and facing him fully. "Well, I'm certainly not eager to tell you, but I'm also less-than- enthusiastic at the thought of spending the rest of my days HERE." She paused for a moment, considering Jack knew what she wanted from him: a promise of absolute secrecy. But she would get none. Will was a good friend of his, and anything he needed to know, he would know, whether Ryenne liked it or not. Jack couldn't help it; pirate or no, some loyalties just came first.  
  
His long silence seemed to convince her of something, for she gave a weary sigh and continued.  
  
"D'you remember who Will asked if I knew?"  
  
"A Lord and Lady Rutherford."  
  
"Yes. Will's mother was a servant in their house; it's where he spent the first 9 years of his life, until he left forever when his mother died. To come here." Again she paused Jack was getting impatient – MUST she drag this out!? But, judging by her face, yes, she did have to. Drawing a deep breath, she came to what she had been building up the courage to say.  
  
"My-my name, then, was Carolyn............Rutherford."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶ 


	27. Intruders

DISCLAIMER: Still don't own PotC. Sry.  
  
There. It was out, she had said it, and by the expression on Jack's face now, there would soon be hell to pay. Ryenne had the vague feeling that she should perhaps be frantic, or at least worried about Jack's refusal to promise secrecy, but...........she didn't. She instead felt a strange sort of peaceful emptiness, as though the weight she had unconsciously carried all these years - the weight that only a name can induce - had been destroyed just by having named herself.  
  
Jack, unfortunately, was slightly less calm. Eyes wide, he grabbed her arm and hissed softly, "He was your SERVANT!?"  
  
Ryenne couldn't help it. She laughed.  
  
"Jack, you dimwit, let go. Of course he wasn't my servant: just a friend for six years. That's all."  
  
Letting out an irritated-sounding breath, Jack leaned against the wall again, crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
"Well?" Ryenne pressed, anxious to know what he was going to do next. Would he go to Will?  
  
"Hold on a moment, love. New perceptions of the world always take some getting used to," he responded wryly.  
  
"Yes, well........." she grumbled, trailing off and going to join him against the wall. "Please don't tell Will." He raised an eyebrow. "Or at least not until the right time." She quickly amended. Jack gave a short laugh.  
  
"You never know – he might figure it out himself. He's a bright lad."  
  
*Perhaps,* Ryenne thought. *But he didn't recognize me the first time.*  
  
"Even if he didn't recognize you the first time," said Jack, sounding as if he had read her mind. She glared at him. Why did he always DO that!? She wanted to say something snide in reply, but – as nothing came to mind – she bit her tongue, turning away to stare at the floor in indignation. A moment of angry silence passed between them, punctuated ironically by the graceful strains of the waltz that had just begun in the background. Rolling his eyes, Jack grabbed her hand and began to drag her out into the press of people milling about, preparing for the dance.  
  
Trying to fight him off with one hand and tugging her uncooperative sleeves into place with the other, she was unsuccessful in both counts, finding herself stumbling over her too-long skirts, away from the safe seclusion of the wall.  
  
"What is WRONG with you!?" she hissed, unable to wrench her hand free of his grasp as she was forced to follow. Stopping abruptly, he slipped his other hand around her waist, guiding her right hand onto his left shoulder.  
  
"Dance with me."  
  
Smiling sardonically, she shook her head, trying to wriggle away. "No, I don't think I will."  
  
"Ryenne, that wasn't a request."  
  
The statement caught her off guard, and he used the moment to get a more firm grip on her waist, catching her other hand once more. Then, the dance began.  
  
The movements were slow and stately, yet Ryenne found she had to keep her full attention on not stumbling. How long had it been since she'd last danced like this? She felt awkward and gangling, her shoes pinching her toes and her legs tangling up in her skirts. Staring down at her feet, it was all she could do not to start counting the steps aloud.  
  
*One two three. One two three..........* her mind hissed at her as she gripped Jack's shoulder tighter, tense and unsure.  
  
Then a hand was cupping her chin, gently forcing her face upward, and she was looking into Jack's deep, brown eyes, all her worry falling away. Her heart was beating in her ears, drowning out all sound, and so loud she was afraid he'd hear it. He didn't appear to, however, gazing down into her eyes with a confident sort of smile on his face............he'd never looked so handsome.  
  
She blinked. Handsome? HANDSOME!? She needed to get herself away from all this, and FAST!  
  
Tearing her eyes away from his face, she took a hesitant step back, forcing him to stop. But he didn't let go of her hand, nor her waist, making her blush furiously.  
  
"Jack, I can't – "  
  
He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arm firmly around her waist, their faces mere inches apart.  
  
"The dance isn't over yet."  
  
*One........two.........three...........* her mind whispered feebly.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
From across the room, Will watched them dancing, a thoughtful look on his face, and an untouched glass of wine in his hand. Noticing his far away expression, Elizabeth stepped up beside him, a bemused smile on her face, and peered in the direction he was staring.  
  
"They do look lovely together, don't they?" she commented wistfully as Jack twirled Ryenne gracefully. The girl's deep blue skirts flared beautifully, making her movements look as fluid as water, and Elizabeth sighed. She was hopeless with dancing and always had been.  
  
Will merely grunted in reply and raised his glass to his lips, but didn't drink. Ignoring his apparent lack of interest, she pressed further, leaning gently against his shoulder.  
  
"It's so romantic............do you think it will last?"  
  
"The dance?"  
  
Furrowing her eyebrows at him, she gestured to Jack and Ryenne. "Not the dance! Them!"  
  
Will shrugged noncommittally. "I don't know. Probably not, given Jack's reputation." He took a slow drink of wine. "I give it a week, or less."  
  
"Will!" she chided, slapping his arm playfully. "I'm serious!"  
  
"So am I." he didn't look at her, but rather off into the distance. She wondered if he was really seeing anything at all; his expression suggestion his stare was looking inward, not out.  
  
"What's wrong Will, dear? You seem so distracted."  
  
He was silent for a moment, and she thought he wouldn't answer, but then, he sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh.  
  
"I know I recognize her............something important.........." His eyes shifted down to the wineglass in his hand, and he swirled it absently. "I'm just not sure from where..........." A long pause. "Do you recognize her?"  
  
"Miss Caelar? No."  
  
Rubbing his forehead perplexedly, he sighed again. "I don't think that's her name........."  
  
"That's the name Jack told us; the one she answers to. Why wouldn't it be hers?" Elizabeth asked, laughing uncertainly.  
  
"I don't know........." he looked so confused; it was breaking her heart. "..........it just doesn't seem.......right........"  
  
Twining her fingers through his, she brushed her lips against his cheek. "Don't worry, darling. I'm sure you'll find out soon enough."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
It seemed like forever before the waltz ended, but when it finally did, Ryenne did not waste time hanging about. Instead, she pulled away from Jack, stalking back over to the wall. Intensely aware of eyes watching her every move, she picked up the wineglass, which a servant had courteously refilled, and peered over it as she scanned the room. The first pair of eyes she found easily enough; they were Jack's. But the second..........Will, she saw it was, standing across the throng of people with his wife – Elizabeth – not even bothering to hide his open stare. Narrowing her eyes, Ryenne boldly returned it. This turned out to be a bad thing to do, because almost immediately, he began to cross the room, making straight for her. Groaning, she turned to the side, awaiting the inevitable. Inevitable because she knew now that, sooner or later, he WOULD find out who she was.  
  
A minute or so passed, though, and nothing happened. Sipping the wine rather faster than she had intended, she turned back to find him. He had stopped in the middle of the room and was talking to Jack. *Here we go,* Ryenne thought miserably. *Jack will tell him, and then...........* Then what? She hadn't the faintest idea what Will's reaction would be to finding out she was here. Cocking her head, she studied the conversation between the two men. It was becoming animated, Jack gesturing in his typical exaggerated way and Will's face intense. Still, she was apparently the only one who noticed it. *Don't,* she desperately thought at Jack.  
  
Finally it ended, and Will returned to his wife, looking decidedly less than satisfied. Jack watched him go for a moment, seeming pained, and then joined Ryenne.  
  
"Dammit, girl, why do you always have to cause me so much trouble?" he muttered under his breath. Ignoring this, she searched his face. What had he said?  
  
"I kept your little secret for now, Ryenne." He sighed, reading the expression on her face as clearly as if she were a book. "Don't know WHY I did. But I have to tell you – it won't last long. He's even more determined than before to find out who you are."  
  
"I thought as much." She said, shaking her head. Jack chewed on his lip for a moment, and then continued.  
  
"Actually, I'm fairly sure that it was your dancing that confirmed it in his eyes."  
  
"What!?" she protested. "I'm a horrible dancer!"  
  
"Not horrible enough – no real pirate dances like THAT."  
  
"You're a pirate." She pointed out. He grinned wryly down at her.  
  
"I'm also Captain Jack Sparrow."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
In a small longboat, a dark-haired man sat silently in the water off the starboard side of the ship known as the Black Pearl. Using the oars only slightly to hold him in the same spot, close enough to touch the dark wood of the hull, he sat and waited with seemingly infinite patience. Finally, though, he heard the signal agreed upon by him and his fellow, and began to scal the side of the ship, carrying with him nothing but a plain, serviceable dagger, clenched in his teeth.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Completely alone, Quinn paced around the deck, eyes open and footsteps quiet. He had volunteered to take this watch by himself, eager for the opportunity for contemplation and peace. And peaceful it was, with the rest of the crew mainly asleep in their quarters and nothing but the barest cool breeze moving the sails and lines of rigging.  
  
Until he suddenly found a fist in his stomach and a hand over his mouth.  
  
Winded and shocked, he acted instinctively, elbowing his attacker sharply and dropping to the deck, rolling away nimbly. Breathing hard, he stood and faced the man, blinking to clear his vision. But nothing happened: the stranger just stood there and watched him in turn.  
  
"Who are you?" Quinn demanded, making his voice harsh. The man said nothing but began walking forward slowly, an amused expression on his face. Only when Quinn had his back nearly up against the rail did he stop. "Who are you?" Quinn repeated, wishing desperately that he'd decided to carry a weapon.  
  
"Where is your captain?" the stranger's voice was deep and resounding, his Irish accent somehow making him seem more fearsome as it echoed from somewhere deep within his huge figure, and Quinn's stomach knotted. Setting a fierce, determined expression on his face, he straightened himself to his full height, which made him still several inches shorter than the intruder.  
  
"State your business."  
  
The tall man laughed cruelly, and put two fingers in his mouth, whistling high and loud: a signal. Jumping slightly, Quinn's eyes darted left and right, searching for more trespassers that were sure to come. There were none, as he could see, but still his heart pounded all-too- loudly with anxiety and apprehension.  
  
Puffing out his chest, he bellowed, "Gibbs! Barlo- " he cut off his cry for help abruptly as he felt the rough edge of a dagger pressed against his throat. The rest of his call, unbidden, came out as a very undignified squeak.  
  
"I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you, lad." The new voice was soft and menacing, almost a whisper, but more threatening than his comrade. Quinn had no doubt that if he didn't comply, he would die for it.  
  
Sucking in shallow breaths through his clenched teeth, he tilted his chin at a proud angle and remained silent, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in fear. He was alone, unarmed: a mere 16-year-old boy............against two grown men - one with a dagger to his throat? If they meant to kill him, his odds at survival were not very good.  
  
"Now, boy, tell us where the captain is." He felt the skin on his neck open slightly under the pressure of the knife, and a trickle of blood ran down like a tear.  
  
"The-the captain.........." He stuttered, trying to think of a reply. "The captain is..........visiting an old friend. In town."  
  
A moment of silence followed his statement, then the low voice spoke from behind him. "Check the cabin, Tyrus." The large man nodded, and hurried away, throwing Quinn a nasty grin. "If you're lying boy, you die."  
  
The sound of a door behind thrown open and several heavy objects being thrown around echoed across the deck, and Quinn tensed, glad that the captain truly WAS off the ship. What did these men want with him, anyway?  
  
"Cabin's empty!" came the reply. The dagger pressed to Quinn's throat eased up a little.  
  
"Which old friends is Captain Jack visiting, boy?"  
  
*Think fast..........think FASTER.......*  
  
"I don't know," Quinn made his voice shake pathetically. "I'm only the cook!"  
  
"He's lying." The tall man said sharply.  
  
"Wait," said the other man, the dagger suddenly biting into Quinn's skin once more. "Is the girl with him, boy?"  
  
Ryenne? What did she have to do with any of this? "M-Miss Caelar?" he stammered. The Irishman laughed.  
  
"MISS Caelar? Hear that, Captain?"  
  
"Shut up, you idiot." Quinn could feel the man's breath on the back of his neck. "Is she?"  
  
What could he say? If he didn't answer, they'd kill him. If he said no, would they search for her? "Y-yes."  
  
"Good. Caelar is doing her job; we only need to wait." The voice behind him said, sounding satisfied. The other man nodded.  
  
*What!?*  
  
Suddenly, the pressure from the dagger was gone, and the man behind him shoved, hard. The deck came up, solid and fast, knocking the wind from his lungs as he rolled across the wood, moaning slightly. He caught a glimpse of a dark-haired figure climbing over the ship's railing, then, all went dark. 


	28. Kidnapped

DISCLAIMER: Disclaim: (dis-klam') v. To deny or relinquish all claim to a certain object(s) or situation. Yes. Very true, that.  
  
Ryenne was feeling rather tipsy. Having had five glasses of wine in the space of an hour, it was justified that she should. It hadn't hurt, in any case, as she was having a pleasantly animated conversation with Will and Elizabeth, the wine completely obliterating her previous feeling of nerves. In fact, she was quite enjoying herself..........in distorted "I'm so drunk I don't even know what I'm talking about" sort of way. Nevertheless, it was an improvement, despite the dirty looks Jack, who was fully sober, kept throwing her.  
  
At the moment, the conversation was centered around Will and Elizabeth's relationship, exactly where Ryenne had steered it, and exactly where she wanted it to stay............or at least she THOUGHT she wanted it to stay there; she couldn't quite remember WHY she would care. She didn't have anything to HIDE, did she?  
  
"It sounds beautiful." She said as Elizabeth finished an ornately detailed description of the wedding, refilling her glass with a flourish. Jack snatched it away, spilling a little on her midnight blue skirts as she fought with him.  
  
"That's enough for you." He said lightly, though his look suggested less-than-enjoyable consequences if she argued. She did anyway.  
  
"Hey! That's mine!"  
  
Jack looked at Will and Elizabeth apologetically, then turned on Ryenne.  
  
"Give that to me," he growled. Ryenne giggled, backed up a few steps, and promptly stumbled over the back of her dress, falling into Jack's arms. Attempting to prop her back up onto her feet as her giggling became somewhat incessant (attracting several pairs of eyes) he patiently kept his arm around her, holding her up. She leaned uncharacteristically against him, smiling wistfully.  
  
"So, what were we talking about?" she slurred, eyeing the glass of wine Jack was withholding from her.  
  
"Erm..........the wedding, I believe........." Will supplied, looking bewildered.  
  
Blinking innocently, she patted him fondly on the chest, making him start in surprise. "You know, I always liked you."  
  
Jack wanted to sink to the floor and bury his face in his hands in embarrassment. What a fine example to show Will and Elizabeth the company he kept! He would have been better off bringing Quinn! All the same, his apologetic smile remained as he held her, afraid she would collapse into a heap if he let go. Nodding to Elizabeth, he said calmly, "Perhaps Ryenne would like to hear of how you and Will met; it's an interesting story." He gave her a pleading look.  
  
"Oh, splendid!" Ryenne chirped, clapping her hands like a child.  
  
Elizabeth, in an attempt to salvage something from the ruins of the conversation, smiled politely and patted Will's arm. "Actually, we were childhood friends; we met on the crossing from England, about.........thirteen years ago, and – "  
  
"I remember the day you told me you were leaving, Will." Ryenne interjected animatedly. "I couldn't stop crying for HOURS, and –" An expression of dawning apprehension crossed her face, and she slapped both hands across her mouth, looking mortified.  
  
Will's mouth dropped open in shock, his eyebrows furrowed in a confused sort of understanding. "Carolyn!?"  
  
For a long moment, Ryenne stood rigid, soaking in the result of her wine-loosened tongue, and then tore free of Jack's grip and set off running. Shoving her way through a bewildered crowd, she kicked off her shoes as she went, making a clumsy beeline for the door.  
  
Simultaneously, Jack and Will gave each other one long, drawn-out glance, then sped after her.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Quinn ran down the near-empty streets of Port Royale, sore, winded, and feeling more than a little lost. When he'd awoken, face-down, on the deck of the Pearl, he'd known exactly what he needed to do: he had to warn Jack. Making sure that the intruders were completely gone, he'd set off into Royale, intent on finding the home of William and Elizabeth Turner, where Jack had said he and Ryenne would be.  
  
Ryenne. Quinn's insides churned and boiled at the very thought of her. Was she really working with those villains, or..........or wasn't she? She'd seemed so........well, KIND to him, if not completely stable. But the deceiver did what was best to keep their secrets secret, did they not? The traitor! Grimacing angrily, Quinn turned a sharp corner onto a dark street and glanced around, perplexed. He wasn't at all familiar with the streets of Port Royale, and had – so far – not come upon a soul who could point him in the direction of the Turner household.  
  
Turning a tight circle, he jumped when he spotted movement down the lane: a dark figure, just out of the light of the streetlamp. Stumbling about, they seemed quite lost themselves............until they looked up, and saw him watching.  
  
"Quinn!" came Ryenne's memorable voice, rough with fatigue. Acting upon instinct, he rushed to her just as she collapsed onto her knees, bracing her against himself. Her hair was wild and her breath reeked of liquor. "Quinn.........what are you doing out here?"  
  
He suddenly remembered what the stranger had said with a fierce intensity.  
  
*Caelar is doing her job; we only have to wait.*  
  
"Where's Captain Sparrow?" he demanded, shoving her away in disgust. She looked hurt and disorientated.  
  
"Quinn, what's wrong?"  
  
A cold laugh echoed from somewhere behind them, in the shadows, and he spun about, searching his belt for a dagger that wasn't there. WHY wasn't he ever ARMED when it was important?  
  
"Nothing is wrong, Ryenne, love." The voice was bone-chillingly familiar, and Quinn remembered the feeling of a rough dagger against his throat, his hand involuntarily moving to the still-bleeding wound.  
  
He'd been followed.  
  
The towering shadow of the first intruder materialized from the darkness, striding forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn could see Ryenne's face twist in horror and revulsion.  
  
"Tyrus!?"  
  
The man grinned wickedly, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. "We just keep running into each other, don't we, Caelar?" his Irish accent sounded ever more pronounced.  
  
Ryenne climbed gingerly to her feet, swaying unsteadily and looking all-too-fragile in her elegant gown. "What do you want?"  
  
"Nothing much." The cold, drawling voice spoke again, the speaker stepping out of the shadows next to his comrade, and – for the fist time – Quinn saw his face.  
  
Younger than Captain Jack, and yet older than Ryenne, he was tall and lean with a mop of dark, curly hair and eyes like twin pools of ink, blacker than the night itself. At the moment, those eyes glittered dangerously with a mixture of contempt and triumph. Something in Quinn faltered, and he took a hesitant step backward; this man seemed to radiate the very essence of evil. Unfortunately for him, his movement caught the stranger's attention, causing the man to chuckle.  
  
"Good work, lad." He laughed, a sadistic smile spreading across his lips. "Not exactly what we wanted, but she'll work well enough; I anticipated as much."  
  
Quinn burned with furious anger: not only had he been followed, he'd been tricked as well. Ryenne was no danger to Jack at all, but was – in fact – in danger herself. Glancing at her, he didn't see the expression of betrayal he'd expected: she was staring, transfixed, at the man, and was shaking so badly it seemed she would tumble off her feet once more. But, she remained standing somehow, a hand to her mouth in shock.  
  
"No........." she shook her head in disbelief. "No, not you!"  
  
"Yes, me." Motioning to his fellow, he nodded slightly. "You know what to do, Tyrus."  
  
Quinn's mind was not moving quickly enough. Was this really happening? Was Ryenne working with the two men or not; acting to keep her cover from being blown? No: it was all-too-real as he watched Tyrus advancing upon her. She appeared too frightened, or too disoriented, to move. He HAD to do SOMETHING.  
  
Jumping in the way, he swung a fist, lashing out with both arms; blows which were easily fended off as the man threw Quinn aside as effortlessly as if he were an old rag.  
  
Quinn skidded across the ground, the rough gravel tearing new wounds in his shoulders, ripping away the thin cloth of his shirt and bits of flesh along with it. His face drug across something sharp, and he cried out in pain as it gouged a deep gash across his cheekbone. Trying to throw off the agony as swiftly as possible, he braced himself up on one elbow, ignoring the blood now flowing freely from his nose and the several lacerations on his face. His eyes were blurring with pain-induced tears, but he could still see the vague figures scuffling about.  
  
Slung over Tyrus's shoulders like a sack of potatoes, Ryenne's shrieks were muffled by a length of cloth that was tied over her mouth, though she fought even harder. Attempting to pull himself to his feet, Quinn gasped as a boot dug mercilessly into his ribs, making his elbow slide out from underneath him. The dark haired man loomed over him, a snarling sort of smile on his face.  
  
"Give that to Sparrow." He hissed, dropping a silvery, sealed envelope onto Quinn's chest. And then, he was gone.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Jack sucked in sharp, gasping breaths as he raced down the street with Will tagging along on his heels. He was beginning to feel disheartened: they should have caught up with Ryenne by now, drunk as she was, and yet there was no sign of her..........so far. They hadn't seen her for so long; they could be completely off her trail and not realize it. Who knew?  
  
Sprinting past a darkened alleyway, he almost didn't spot the huddled, shaking figure halfway down it until Will grabbed his arm, dragging him to a halt. Nodding to the crouched shape, he motioned for silence, pulling Jack out of view of the alleyway.  
  
"Is that her?" he whispered, trying to pull himself free of Will's grip. "We have to get to her!"  
  
"Shhhh!" Will hissed in reply. "We can't let her see us, or she might take off again!"  
  
Nodding in assent, Jack glanced over his shoulder at the alleyway and took a few slow strides, trying to tread lightly to lessen the crunch of gravel under his boots. Not enough. The figure's head snapped up, the face pinched with pain and fatigue, but there was no mistaking who it was.  
  
"Quinn? What the bloody hell are you doing out here!?" Jack demanded, descending on the boy with a scowl. This quickly dissipated as he noticed the lad's rough condition. "Good lord, boy, what HAPPENED to you!?"  
  
Quinn groaned, rolling onto his back with considerable effort. His arms were torn up all the way down, from his shoulders to the palms of his hands, as were his knees. Most of his face was covered in half-dried blood that seemed to have come from a deep red gash across his cheekbone, and there was a shallow, yet painful-looking, wound slashing across his throat, encrusted with dirt and blood. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, though not from injury: he'd been crying..........and still was, from the looks of it, trying to blink away the half-formed tears stinging his eyes.  
  
"Captain, I – " His voice was frantic, filled with sorrow and regret. "I came to warn you, but she was running, and – and they came out of the shadows, and I couldn't stop them! I tried, but – "  
  
"Slow down, lad!" Jack said, grabbing Quinn's shoulders, causing the boy to cry out in pain. Letting go quickly, he dropped to one knee beside him and tried to remain calm. "Tell me what happened. Slowly."  
  
Quinn's eyes shifted nervously to Will, who was still hovering a few feet behind Jack, looking bewildered, and he became wary. "Who......?"  
  
"This is Will Turner," Jack explained, seeing the fear and distrust in the boy's gaze. "You don't need to be afraid of him."  
  
Nodding somewhat suspiciously, Quinn nodded, taking a slow breath and trying to prop himself up on his bleeding elbows, but deciding against it.  
  
"I was on watch, on the Pearl, when someone hit me from behind; an intruder. He asked where you were, and when I wouldn't tell him, one of his fellows came up behind me and put a dagger to my throat. They said something about Ry – Miss Caelar, and how – if she was doing her job – they only needed to wait.........then, they left."  
  
"You were on watch by yourself?" Jack asked skeptically.  
  
Quinn looked sheepish. "I-I requested watch alone......." Lowering his eyes, he continued. "Well, I waited until I thought they were gone, and I came to warn you – "  
  
"Foolish; it would've been near impossible for them to find me at Will and Elizabeth's home; it was safe enough." Jack chided.  
  
Continuing on in a deadened sort of tone, Quinn retold the events of the evening, making Jack regret his scathing words as fresh tears shone upon the boy's cheeks.  
  
"He-he told me to give you this." Quinn handed him the silver envelope, knuckling the tears from his eyes.  
  
"Did you recognize him?"  
  
"No, but he called his fellow by a name; Tyrus, I think."  
  
Jack froze, Ryenne's voice echoing in his ears.  
  
*Who is Tyrus?*  
  
*Someone I'm trying to forget  
  


* * *

  
No. It couldn't be the same Tyrus; not the one who'd done Ryenne so much harm, both emotionally...........and physically. If it was........... Jack turned the envelope over in his hands, staring in horror at the emblem pressed into the wax seal.  
  
A gryphon.  
  
"Oh, bloody hell..........." 


	29. A Trade

DISCLAIMER: Don't own PotC. Don't own PotC.  
  
Ryenne regained consciousness without even knowing she'd lost it, groaning and opening her eyes. Her head ached as though it were clamped in a vise, and her muscles were sore all over. Blinking against the flickering glare of the lamp on the table next to her, she twisted her hands behind her..........and jerked upright in comprehension. Choking in surprise, she gave her wrists a vicious tug in a desperate attempt to free herself, and nearly upended the chair she was sitting on: she was bound, hand and foot, her mouth securely gagged with a length of cloth. Twisting her head around, she quickly surveyed her surroundings, writhing her hands anxiously.  
  
The room she occupied was all-too-familiar...........because it was the captain's cabin of the Silver Gryphon. It looked little different than the last time she'd seen it, the same plain wardrobe and rough table, the same bed........... Noticing the dark figure perched upon it's foot, she scuttled backward, wrenching at her bonds.  
  
"Don't even bother, Ryenne, love." The voice made her blood freeze in her veins, and she sat rigid, her hands twitching nervously behind her. For, in front of her, sat the one person she'd never expected to see.  
  
"Quinn!?" she gasped. Only, as she was gagged, it came out sounding more like "Mmph!?"  
  
Her old first mate laughed, easily twirling the plain dagger in his hand and standing, his long coat swirling forbiddingly around his legs. His eyes were hard as he stared down at her, a malicious smile playing about his lips.  
  
"If you somehow manage to get out of that, I'll only tie you tighter. Though, from what Tyrus has told me, you're not very good with rope, are you?" he laughed again, a cold, cruel sound that made her cringe – so different from the rich, good-hearted chuckle she remembered.  
  
"Mmmph!" she replied succinctly, fixing him with her most furious glare. He returned it with a mild, infuriating stare, the corner of his mouth turned up in that cruel smile that had never really left his face. Then, he sighed, shaking his head regretfully.  
  
"I can see that sooner or late I'm going to have to un-gag you. This is becoming a very one-sided conversation."  
  
With the rag off, Ryenne took a few deep breaths, trying to rid herself of the stench of dead fish and bilge water that had been invading her senses.  
  
"Why Quinn? Why?" Every remotely witty, sarcastic, or biting comment she could have made fled from her, and she was left with just the simple question that had needed to be asked for so long. He didn't answer it, though, but responded in turn with a question of his own.  
  
"Who organized the mutiny, Ryenne?" his face was hard, but his voice........she nearly gasped at the sorrow and compassion it held. How DARE he mock her like this!  
  
"Tyrus," she said warily, trying not to think of when HE had come to her in her cabin. Quinn closed his eyes momentarily, then came and knelt by the side of the bed, sighing. Whatever ploy he was using, it was throwing her off almost completely. What was his game!? She found out.....all too soon.  
  
"No, Ryenne, it was not Tyrus. It was me."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Young Quinn watched Jack's face as he read the note, watched his eyebrows rise and then furrow in consternation and anger. What did it say, he wanted to shout, but out of long-learned self-control, held silent. Jack motioned for Will to read it, and his reaction was similar, if slightly more verbal.  
  
"A trade. He wants a trade?"  
  
Jack nodded wearily, handing the note finally to Quinn, who stared at it in puzzlement, then cleared his throat.  
  
"Er........sir."  
  
His captain looked embarrassed for a moment, taking it back. "Oh. My apologies, lad." He began reading it out loud.  
  
"The Captain of the ship 'Silver Gryphon' does HUMBLY request a repartee with the Captain of the 'Black Pearl', regarding the negotiations and arrival of an accord between them concerning the location of the Isle de Muerta. We will meet you aboard the aforementioned 'Silver Gryphon' at dawn, the 31st of December.  
  
Signed,  
  
An old friend of your..........whore."  
  
He faltered at this last bit, his expression disgusted as he shot a glance at Will. Even though Will had read it once before, he again seemed to be having difficulty comprehending the import of what had been written.  
  
"A trade.........your..........WHAT!? Jack, you haven't –"He demanded heatedly, glaring at Jack. Quinn, curious – but wary – as to what would transpire, backed a step away. He could have sworn that for a brief moment Jack looked guilty, or perhaps regretful – but then it was gone, and he snorted derisively.  
  
"No." he said, his tone brooking no arguments. Will heaved a sigh of relief, some of the tension easing from his face, and Quinn felt like joining him. Sheepishly, he thought back to all the times Ryenne had denied that she and Jack were............well, lovers – and how many times he had dismissed her refusal as a by-product of embarrassment, a cover-up. And it hadn't been.  
  
His mind was jarred back to the present as Jack spoke again.  
  
"Have you seen any sign of this Silver Gryphon?"  
  
Will looked puzzled. "No. I haven't seen any ship by that name around the island." He thought for a moment. "But there's an easy way to check – you can see nearly the whole island from the fort." He pointed to the largest hill to the west, atop which was the visible silhouette of a large, stone building. Then he looked at Jack. "But.......you're not actually going to go, are you?"  
  
"I have no choice."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous! It's obviously a trap!" Quinn protested, not able to help himself. "They'll kill you, and then where will that leave the Pearl!?"  
  
Will nodded in approval even as Jack gave them both a long, measured look.  
  
"I have no choice," he repeated slowly, as if realizing something surprising about himself. "Because THEY have Ryenne."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Rynne's mouth fell open in surprise. QUINN had organized the mutiny!? QUINN, who had been so........loyal........so KIND to her? She closed her mouth........then opened it again, trying to say something – anything – but she couldn't. Shutting her mouth again, she got the feeling she was starting to look like a fish out of water.  
  
"But.........Tyrus........?" she whispered, utterly at a loss for words.  
  
Quinn looked pained. "Oh, don't give HIM all the credit. It wasn't even his idea!"  
  
She paled dramatically, suddenly feeling quite nauseated. "You........YOU rallied the crew against me!?"  
  
"Somebody would have done it sooner or later," he shrugged in an infuriatingly nonchalant way. "I only thought, why not sooner?"  
  
"But-but........I thought you were my FRIEND!" she spluttered, too emotionally numb to even THINK about crying. Why was he DOING this!?  
  
"For a time, yes." His voice was light, carefree. "But things change, Ryenne, love. And even YOU have to admit.......you were a terrible captain."  
  
As it had so many times before, her ridiculous pride set in, and she puffed out her chest arrogantly, tilting her chin up. "What would YOU know about being captain, Quinn? Answer me that."  
  
Raising one sarcastic eyebrow, he crossed his arms over his chest with a small laugh and shook his head at her.  
  
"I AM captain."  
  
Flushing in anger and embarrassment, Ryenne sighed huffily and slouched as far as her bonds would let her. "Why didn't you just leave me in that alleyway, all those years ago?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know." He shrugged again, starting to pace back and forth in front of her, a small grin on his face. "Boredom. Loneliness, perhaps. The romantic idea of being chivalrous – "  
  
"You cretin!" she growled, narrowing her eyes at him. If she hadn't been bound, she probably would have lunged at him that very moment. "You ruined my life!"  
  
Quinn looked obnoxiously pleased with himself. "Calm down, love. I was merely answering the question."  
  
"Don't call me that! DON'T call me that!" she screamed, tugging her wrists furiously. A strand of dark hair fell over her eyes. "I'm not your little PET anymore!"  
  
Looking thoughtful, he nodded. "Yes........THAT is probably why I rescued you, come to think of it. Oh, how you doted on me..........."  
  
"Oh?" she snapped, flipping her hair out of her face. "Well, why didn't you join in the FESTIVITIES during the mutiny, then?"  
  
"Oh, come now, love. I could've had that of your own free will, if I wanted it. And besides, that WAS Tyrus's idea." Squatting down in front of her, he leaned close, as though divulging a secret. "But, I suppose that doesn't matter now, what with your precious Sparrow and all."  
  
"WHAT!?" she all but shrieked, jerking away from him. He took out the dagger h had been toying with and slid it under one of her ridiculous sleeves, lifting it slightly and eyeing it with a strange, amused sort of look.  
  
"Really, Ryenne. You never used to wear this sort of thing before."  
  
Gritting her teeth, she growled. "And you never used to care what I wore, before. Why should you now?"  
  
"Why, because you're my hostage of course."  
  
Oh, but that innocently smug smile was infuriating!  
  
"I don't see that as sufficient reason."  
  
Suddenly, the dagger point was at her throat.  
  
"Is THIS sufficient enough for you?"  
  
Shaking with suppressed fury and fear, she tried to unclench her jaw enough to be able to speak.  
  
"I owed him, and he requested that as payment, I go to a banquet with him. In a dress. This dress, surprisingly enough; the first dress I've worn in years."  
  
Quinn appeared to be totally unfazed by her sarcasm, thoughtfully removing the dagger from her chin and holding it up to the lamplight before fixing her with a shrewd stare.  
  
"You owed him? Why?"  
  
"He saved my life." She said defiantly, tilting her chin. She did not add exactly how many times, though; she had no desire to belittle herself even further before this monster.  
  
Quinn pulled out the chair from the desk, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room not nailed to the floor for anchorage during voyages. He sat directly across from her, considering her over steepled fingers. The dagger was nowhere to be seen, now, and Ryenne was glad.  
  
"So......he WOULD put himself at risk for you, then."  
  
There was only the barest detectable hint of triumph about those words, but Ryenne sensed it, and it made her faintly sick. What had she just unwittingly revealed? Thinking carefully, she chose her answer.  
  
"Only.......only when the profit is greatest for him." She said, trying to sound as scornful as possible. Liar! screamed a voice in her head as images of the sharks, de Muerta, and her ridiculous suicide attempt flashed in her mind. *It's for his own good,* she thought fiercely at it, staving off her rising guilt.  
  
Quinn thought this over briefly before speaking, his dark eyes – though still hard – pensive. Then, he smiled.  
  
"Do you resent him for that, Ryenne? No, no, don't bother trying to answer, I can see it in your eyes. You're afraid, and you want to know exactly what it is I have planned for our Sparrow friend. Well, don't fret over it – I'm not going to tell you. Anyhow, the boy should have delivered my note by now. We'll see if my assumptions were correct."  
  
The boy......... "What boy?" Ryenne asked testily. Quinn waved an airy hand.  
  
"Oh, some young idiot keeping watch on the Pearl all by himself earlier this evening. We had to rough him up a bit – he fought fairly well for an unarmed child."  
  
Ryenne's blood ran cold. This was QUINN he was talking about, HER Quinn, the lad who bore the same name, but shared no other resemblances to the bastard sitting before her.  
  
Amazed, on some deeper level, at the fierce protectiveness that rose up inside her at the thought of the boy, she finally DID lunge at him, snarling. The ropes binding her gave a groan, but held good, and she cried out as her wrists were twisted painfully.  
  
"If you've harmed one hair on his head – "  
  
"Ryenne, dear, I'm afraid we did a bit more than that," he chuckled, standing quickly and stepping out of her reach as she wrenched at her bonds once more, setting the chair off-balance. Reorienting herself, Ryenne drew a few deep breaths and tried to become at least somewhat compose, resting her back against the rough back of the chair and tilting her head back.  
  
"Quinn, I just want you to know that someday, preferably soon, I hope very much to kill you."  
  
He opened the door, a light dancing cheerfully in his eyes, and a genteel smile upon his face.  
  
"Save your breath, Caelar," he said softly. "You're in no position to make threats. Oh, and get some rest while you can – you might be in for a bit of a day tomorrow."  
  
Having said this, he shut the door softly, leaving Ryenne all alone with her thoughts. 


	30. Scream

DISCLAIMER: WE OWN POTC! SHOVE OFF, FORMER OWNERS! Hehe.....just kidding. Sry.  
  
"You're not REALLY planning to go, are you, Captain?" Quinn asked uneasily as he prepared to dress the still-bleeding wounds on his arms.  
  
Not looking up from the worn map he was studying with a fevered intensity, Jack sighed, his face suddenly seeming very drawn and tired in the flickering lamplight. "Of course I mean to go, lad. I can't very well leave Ryenne with those......those......." Growling in frustration, he shoved the map aside, riffling through a sheaf of papers that lay scattered upon the surface of his desk.  
  
Quinn shifted uncomfortably, busying himself with the clean, white bandages he was wrapping around his left arm, a pained expression on his face. Throwing a hasty glance at his captain, he shrugged, wincing as his stinging shoulders gave a wave of painful protest.  
  
"I don't know....." he mumbled sulkily. "They won't really HURT her, will they?"  
  
Jack laughed mirthlessly, unrolling another ancient-looking map, frowning, then tossing it aside to pick up another. "They'll do more than just that, boy. Humiliation, torture.....anything they can think of –"  
  
"But what about the Pearl!?" Quinn interjected, looking dubious. "What about the rest of us!? What'll WE do if you're killed?" Carefully avoiding Jack's hard gaze, which was suddenly fixed on him, he shrugged again. "After all, she's only ONE person."  
  
If he thought Jack's eyes were cold, his voice was even colder. "You're sounding very selfish right now, Quinn – I thought you cared for Ryenne!"  
  
"I-I do, but....." Quinn's voice faltered pathetically, a lump forming in his throat. "It's just –"  
  
"What?" Jack snarled. "It's just WHAT!? You don't care ENOUGH to want to rescue her!? You'd just let them do to her what they did before!? Would that keep you satisfied!?"  
  
Skittering backward as Jack threw his chair to the floor, Quinn blinked back guilty tears, clutching his healing materials to his chest. "I- I don't understand."  
  
"No, you don't." Jack snapped, tearing open yet another map and slamming it down onto his desk, sweeping the other aside. "Get Barlowe in here – I need to send a message into town."  
  
"I can take it –"  
  
"I said, GET OUT!" Jack roared. Quinn twitched, bolting out the door and slamming it behind him.  
  
Staring numbly at the map on his desk, Jack righted his chair and sunk into it with a groan, his eyes stinging with unwanted, angry tears that he didn't bother to blink back. As much as he didn't want to admit it.....he was worried.....and afraid. What WOULD happen to the Pearl if he were to get killed? And Ryenne? Burying his face in his hands, he allowed his shoulders to slump in defeat as the tears fell, leaving salty trails down his weathered cheeks.  
  
Ryenne.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Squinting against the night, Will stood atop the ramparts of the fort, looking out over the island in search of the Silver Gryphon. The harbor lay in the southern end, and there was no sign of anything besides a couple of fisherman's skiffs docked in the other areas. But there was one part of the island that ended with a sharp cliff, almost as if half of a hill had up and dropped into the sea, and it was here he turned his attention, because a decent-sized ship could easily have approached from that side and hidden. It was outside the actual colony, and the cliff was rocky, as was the small beach beneath, so no one chose to go there. But he had nearly grown up in Port Royale, and knew nearly every part of it intimately. If there was a ship there – which there probably was – then he had no choice but to make sure of it and report back to Jack. After, of course, he talked to Elizabeth – she would have had to take care of the guests the rest of the evening, and would be worried about him.  
  
Nodding to one of the uniformed guards that passed by him on rounds, he breathed in one last lungful of the fresh, salty, sea air and started to descend the stairs, when a quiet voice behind him made him pause.  
  
"I thought I'd find you here."  
  
Whirling about, he searched for the origin of the voice, eyes alighting on the form of a small girl, no older than five. Blinking in disbelief, he glanced about, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling; a child so young as this couldn't have gotten up HERE – to the parapets of the fort – all alone, could she? Settling a kind, welcome expression on his face, he bent slightly, lowering himself to her eyelevel.  
  
"Are you lost?" he asked sweetly, cocking his head to one side. The child stared at him in a most disconcerting way, almost as if she were staring THROUGH him; she appeared to be waiting for something, her honey- amber eyes expectant, ignoring the friendly hand he was offering.  
  
Honey-amber eyes? Examining the girl closer, he saw the familiar mischievous smile creep onto those small lips, her eyes twinkling with some secret fire. Black hair worked into delicate curls, and pale, almost translucent skin that seemed to glow with an ethereal, otherworldly light.....it was a living ghost.  
  
"Carolyn?" he whispered, drawing his hand back warily. The small girl's face broke into a grin, and she nodded enthusiastically, clapping her hands joyfully.  
  
"Come play with me, Will!" she laughed, and Will fought the urge to run from that eerily echoing voice as she seized his hand, pulling him along. Her tiny fingers were freezing to the touch, and felt to be made of as little substance as the cool night air.  
  
"Where are we going?" he asked hesitantly, obediently following the little specter. She pointed. Following her finger with his gaze, he saw she was indicating the rocky plateau he'd been looking at before, and stared, transfixed. For, rising a small ways above the edge of the cliff, moving as if out to sea, there was a sail, deep blood red in the night shadows, and barely visible: it could only be the ship named as the Silver Gryphon.  
  
"Come play with me, Will!" she repeated, sounding slightly anxious. "But hurry – they aren't playing fair! Hurry and come!"  
  
Then, all of a sudden, she was gone.  
  
Jumping back a pace or two, his eyes darted about, searching frantically for the child – for Carolyn. The guard that was pacing back and forth gave him a quizzical look, fingering the trigger of his musket apprehensively.  
  
"Are-are you all right, sir?"  
  
More than slightly startled, Will nodded stiffly. "Yes, I'm fine. Only tired.....only tired, that's all..... Yes....."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Quinn hovered near the door to Jack's cabin, his ear pressed to the keyhole, holding his breath in an extra effort to remain silent and hear what the Captain had to say. For a moment, all that was to be heard was the sharp tap of Barlowe's boots on the floor and rustling papers, then, Jack spoke.  
  
"Barlowe, I need you to take an important message into Royale for me."  
  
"Easy enough, Cap'n." Barlowe chuckled. "What's the message?"  
  
"I need you to tell William Turner that Captain Jack Sparrow requests his counsel, and – if he is able – he should come to the Pearl as soon as possible..... Do you know the way to the Turner household?"  
  
"Not exactly, Cap'n."  
  
"Alright, then. First, you need to take the main street, and –"Quinn pressed his ear harder to the keyhole, straining to catch every word out of Jack's mouth. "–from there, you should see a pub called 'The Soldier's Place'(it's a large, grey building – hard to miss) – take a left onto –"  
  
Making mental notes in his head of the exact directions, Quinn backed away from the door, making sure his dagger was securely fastened to his belt, and took off running: he would be the one to deliver this message, to prove he COULD be of some help to the situation.  
  
Jogging down the gangplank, he threw a hasty glance back at the ship, making certain he wasn't being followed, and shrugged into his long, woolen coat. The rough fabric rubbed at his un-bandaged shoulders coarsely, but gave him far more protection than his thin, cotton shirt – both against the wind, and in case of another encounter. Repeating Jack's message over and over in his head, he tried – simultaneously – to remember the directions to the Turner home.  
  
The main street was easy enough to find, it's well-lit – yet deserted – road was cobbled and clean-looking, welcoming traffic of all kinds. At the moment, however, he seemed to be the only person about, his boots echoing in a lonely sort of way as they clicked across the cobblestones. He paused every so often to check his course, and to make sure he wasn't being followed, but – all in all – he was making good time.  
  
In a few more minutes, he found himself looking upon the darkened stoop of 'The Soldier's Place' – a tall, unfriendly sort of building with a large sign adorned with a burgundy paint that looked horribly similar to blood. (Not that he could read it anyway) Ignoring this, he turned to the left.....down the same dark, narrow alleyway he'd met Ryenne in, only a few short hours before.  
  
Coughing nervously, he tugged his coat further around himself, and charged into a full-out sprint. There would be no one to stop him delivering his message tonight.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Will was rather badly shaken when he left the fort, accepting various soldiers salutes and nods without thought. As he walked briskly through the dark streets of Port Royale, he couldn't help but glance from side to side, and over his shoulder, nervously searching for the phantom that had appeared to him at the fort. But all was dim and silent, the shops empty as his reflection passed by in the windows.  
  
Pausing momentarily to peer at his own pale, drawn face, he couldn't contain a yell of alarm when a small figure crashed headlong into him, fell backward, and lay in a gasping heap at his feet. The youth's blond hair shone faintly in the lamplight, and Will let out a sigh of relief – it wasn't the little ghost.....but there WAS something familiar about this boy.  
  
"Quinn?" he asked, offering Jack's young crew member a hand. Blinking confusedly, the lad sat a moment, staring at him in a tense sort of way, like a mouse caught in a trap. "I'm Will Turner," Will explained, trying to say something to erase the blatant mistrust in the boy's eyes. "You remember – Jack's friend?"  
  
Quinn's mouth formed into an "o" of recognition, and he grabbed Will's hand with his own tightly-bandaged one, grunting as he hauled himself to his feet. The tall, dark-haired man standing before him looked far too much like Ryenne's kidnapper for his comfort, and he eyed him suspiciously. But, he was the man who needed to get Jack's message, so he straightened up and cleared his throat in a brusque, businesslike way, taking a deferential step back.  
  
"Captain Jack Sparrow requests your counsel, and – if you are able – you should report to the Black Pearl as soon as possible."  
  
Will looked slightly puzzled for a moment, then nodded authoritatively, a grim smile on his face. "That I will."  
  
"Very good." Quinn turned to leave.  
  
"Wait – will you do me a favor, lad?" Turning back to Will, who looked suddenly anxious, he tried to look courteous. Quite frankly, he was tired of being referred to as 'lad' and 'boy'. "Will you take a message to my wife?"  
  
In that moment, Quinn saw something in Will that could only have been why Jack remained his friend – a sort of determined glint in his eyes. It seemed to say, that no matter what happened, he would give everything wholeheartedly for the cause at stake.  
  
"Of course I will, Mr. Turner."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Elizabeth put her cup down on its dainty china saucer and looked exasperatedly at the boy sitting across from her. Though oddly gentle- seeming, he was also careworn, his eyes much older than the rest of his face. He appeared exceedingly ill-at-ease, though, squirming slightly and staring down at the table. He was obviously from Jack's ship; when he had first entered the house, stepping shyly away from the door after a hesitant knock, his eyes had grown wide in wonder at the opulence in which it must have seemed to him that they lived.  
  
"Did Will say what he and Jack are going to do?"  
  
His answer was immediate.  
  
"No; the Captain wouldn't tell me, either. But they're going to find some way to rescue Ry-Miss Caelar – of that I'm sure."  
  
"Ryenne – the girl Will called Carolyn....." Elizabeth mused. If anything, the boy – Quinn, he had said his name was – looked even more uncomfortable.  
  
"Her name is Ryenne." He said stoutly, a resolute look on his face.  
  
Nodding politely, she took up her teacup again, feeling very much put- off. Staring down at the dregs, she sighed – a hopeless sort of sigh.  
  
"You know –"But what he knew, he never found out.  
  
A loud pounding on the door made both of them jump, and Quinn's face paled drastically as he leapt to his feet. "I have to leave – d'you have a back door?" he said hurriedly, glancing about frantically.  
  
"Is something wrong? Are we in danger?" she asked, grabbing his shoulder. He brushed her off impatiently.  
  
"You're not." More pounding on the door. "Hurry – is there a back way out –"  
  
Bang bang bang bang!  
  
"Yes, but –"  
  
Bang bang bang!  
  
"Hurry!"  
  
His blue eyes were wide with fear, and she wondered what kind of trouble he was in, and if it put her in danger. Was he really a fugitive, posing as a messenger to come invade her home? In any case, she had to answer the door before it was broken down. Waving a hand at him, she swept out of the room, brushing down her skirts reflexively.  
  
"Wait there."  
  
"But –"  
  
Taking a deep breath, she closed her fingers over the handle, and pulled open the door to see......  
  
"Mrs. Turner?" the man asked in a brisk sort of voice.  
  
She pasted on a politely perplexed smile. "Yes. Can I help you?"  
  
He nodded, not returning the smile. "I have a message from Captain Jack Sparrow to deliver to your husband, William. Is he at home?"  
  
"Will?" she repeated, confused. "But, I thought he was already on his way to the Pearl.....he sent one of Jack's messengers – "  
  
"Beg pardon, ma'am?" his voice was suddenly hard. "What do you mean 'on of his messengers'? I was the only messenger sent out tonight."  
  
Gesturing over her shoulder, she frowned uncertainly. "A young lad –"  
  
"A young lad? About fifteen or so?"  
  
"Yes......"  
  
"Quinn!" the man bellowed, a look of comprehension and rage upon his face. Glancing backward, she saw the boy poke his head hesitantly out of the sitting room, a sheepish expression upon his face.  
  
"Hullo, Barlowe."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne's hands were bleeding – of that, she was sure. She'd been wrenching at them for so long, it was hardly surprising, though the effort had been grievously wasted. Her fingers were so numb, she could have already freed herself and not noticed it. But – in giving them another vicious tug – she realized they were not, with no small amount of disappointment. Her current situation was getting more hopeless by the moment, and the fact that Tyrus had not yet come to her hung over her head like a deadly shadow.  
  
As if conjured by her thoughts, the heavy door swung open with a loud creak, revealing the last person she'd hoped to see. Recoiling instinctively, her ears rung with Tyrus's booming laughter.  
  
"Well, well, well.....if it isn't our beloved Captain Caelar." He said snidely, closing the door behind him with a sharp snap. "I take it you weren't expecting me?"  
  
Clenching her teeth, she sucked in a long, slow breath. "Come near me, Tyrus, and I'll –"  
  
"You'll what?" he sneered. "No one would come if you called – we both know that."  
  
Ryenne could hardly keep from shaking in fear as he advanced towards her, the suspense of what was going to happen weighing upon her like lead; she didn't think she could survive if he.....if he.....raped her again. Closing her eyes, she tried to finish her threat.....but there was nothing she could say.  
  
"I'll....."  
  
He laughed derisively. "Don't bother – I didn't come here for that. Captain's orders....." he grinned evilly. "Believe me, if it weren't for that, I'd –"  
  
"Stop it!" she shrieked, stamping her foot crossly, frightened tears welling up in her eyes. "Just stop it!"  
  
His dagger was in his hand in a second, the blade pressed against her neck. She hadn't even been aware that he was close enough to do that. Choking down the lump that was forming in her throat, a strangled sort of sob escaped her, betraying her anxiety. The blade scraped her more roughly still as he bent to whisper in her ear, his voice taunting.  
  
"Scream."  
  
Breathing short, ragged breaths, she jerked up rigid in the chair, tears streaming down her face. She'd never felt weaker in her life, and she was terrified, but she would not give in to him. Gritting her teeth, she steeled herself against him – perfectly silent, save for her own short, staccato breathing.  
  
"No?" he asked contemptuously, straightening, the dagger leaving her throat. She knew what was about to happen before it happened, and sucked in a sharp breath as his hand shot out, the force from the blow snapping her head to one side. She didn't make a sound.  
  
"Come on, girl!" he hissed, the back of his hand assaulting her cheekbone once more, sending blood red stars dancing across her vision. Grabbing her shoulders, he shook her roughly, a vein throbbing at his temple. "Scream!"  
  
Jerking away, she was greeted by the sickening sound of tearing cloth, and her eyes popped open, staring in horror at the large piece of midnight blue fabric Tyrus held clenched in his fist: one of her ridiculous sleeves. Chuckling cruelly, he tossed it aside.  
  
"Don't tease me, Ryenne."  
  
Before she could hiss a reply – or even think – he was upon her, a horrible sense of dread and déjà vu plaguing her. As before, his lips forced hers apart, despite her struggles, his tongue sliding into her mouth. Gagging, she tried to pull away.....but she couldn't – there was no where for her to move, and his grip was far too strong, bruising her jaw. There was nothing she could do except bear it. Her stomach clenched and unclenched, knotting painfully: she was going to be sick.....  
  
And then, it was over.  
  
She couldn't help it: she screamed. 


	31. The Sparrow's Whore

DISCLAIMER: We do not own PotC. Enough said – now, on to the good stuff.....  
  
Quinn was becoming tired of being afraid. As soon as Barlowe had seen him, he grabbed Quinn by the forearm and marched – no, half dragged – him out the door, snapping only a brief apology to the startled and annoyed- looking Mrs. Turner. Now he had to nearly jog to keep up with the stout man's swift pace through the sleeping town, and Barlowe was showing no signs of slowing soon. Instead, he kept up a steady tirade under his breath, punctuated by curses fit to make any hardened seaman blush, and sharp glares in Quinn's general direction.  
  
Personally, Quinn actually rather agreed with most of the things directed at him. What HAD he been thinking, going to deliver a message that was already going to be delivered? He should have known that Barlowe would show up, and that there would then be inevitable trouble. Jack already didn't trust him much; what would he think now?  
  
*That I'm a selfish idiot,* he answered himself, stumbling slightly over a raised cobblestone. *And he'd be right.* So he had to face two main fears, now: his fear of Jack's loss of trust in him (and temper), and......what was happening to Ryenne. *Not Carolyn* he thought fiercely. *Whoever Carolyn was, she's not, and never will be, the Ryenne I know.*  
  
Suddenly, Barlowe let go of his arm, and Quinn stopped, rubbing it ruefully; it would probably bruise. The man jerked his head impatiently, and Quinn walked ahead of him onto the dock and out to the gangplank of the Pearl, dreading every step that took him closer to it.  
  
As he stepped onto the deck, the door to Jack's cabin swung open, and Jack himself swept out with Mr. Turner on his heels. They were in close conversation and looking generally shifty, and Quinn noticed that Jack hadn't had time – or hadn't bothered – to shed his formal attire; he was still even wearing his long, black dress coat. Despite this, however, he looked dangerous and fearsome, his dark eyes glittering with a wild sort of fire that made Quinn nervous. What sort of temper could he expect when Jack was in THIS state?  
  
For one fragile moment, it appeared he would pass Quinn by in his current distraction.....and, then......Barlowe spoke up.  
  
"Captain, may I have a word?"  
  
Jack glanced from Barlowe, who looked furious, to Quinn, who looked as though he were about to be executed, and a suspicious frown crossed his face. "What's all this?"  
  
Clearing his throat pompously, Barlowe crossed his arms and nodded to the boy, his tone clearly dubious. "The lad decided he needed to deliver your message himself, Captain. I found him with Mrs. Turner."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn could see a slightly sheepish expression cross Will's face, but it was quickly suppressed, and he was left to concentrate on looking less-than-suspicious himself.  
  
Raising a critical eyebrow, Jack crossed his arms as well, his already incensed frown twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Is that so?"  
  
Lowering his eyes nervously, Quinn coughed. "I-uh-"  
  
"You don't know how important it is that everything goes to plan, do you, boy?" Jack growled, making Quinn blush furiously.  
  
"I – "  
  
"No, you don't." Waving an angry hand at Barlowe, Jack shouted one last order. "Barlowe, lock him in the brig and don't let him out until I get back: we can't have him causing more trouble."  
  
Quinn's head shot up, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. "But, Captain, I can HELP!"  
  
Jack brushed past, making his way down the gangplank without so much as a backward glance. "You've already proven yourself incapable of defending the ship, Ryenne, or even yourself! Argue any further, and you'll be finding your place on someone else's ship!"  
  
Watching his captain pull on a tri-cornered hat as he walked, Quinn didn't even bother to fight back when Barlowe caught his arm, roughly pulling him along, a glimmer of anger and hurt in his eyes. Perhaps he WOULD find his place on another ship.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne's face was a mass of blossoming bruises, and ached as though her jaw had been broken. Her lower lip had split under the force of Tyrus's relentless beating, and continued to trickle blood down her chin – she was a complete wreck. She sat slumped in the chair, her shoulders drooping pathetically in defeat – she'd long since stopped even trying to pull out of her bonds. It was an impossible hope. Instead, she occupied herself by morbidly guessing at what could be in store for her, which only depressed her more, but was – nonetheless – quite entertaining.  
  
Quinn HAD asked about Jack, so, no doubt, their little plot had something to do with him. Did they expect him to come looking for her? She laughed aloud at the thought, but there was no mirth in it - he wouldn't go out of his way to save her. After all, he hadn't ever before – he'd always been nearby when she needed rescuing, he'd never had to search her out before. Somehow, she doubted he would, and THEN what would Quinn do? Kill her? Torture her? Or, would he, perhaps, search out Jack? Exactly how important WAS Jack in their plans – was she merely serving as bait?  
  
Captain's orders..........Tyrus had only refrained from raping her again because Quinn had ordered him not to..... Then, she WAS bait – bait not to be greatly harmed, that was. The thought made her feel relieved and disappointed at the same time – relieved that they most likely would not kill her, as dead bait was worthless, and disappointed because it proved she was no longer important enough to capture simply because they wanted to. How degrading, that she'd been reduced to being a lure – it was almost insulting.  
  
Sighing exasperatedly at herself, she rubbed her shoulder against the back of the chair and gasped in pain, glaring down at her collarbone. Four or five long, red gashes ran the width of her chest – fingernail marks, evidence of her grappling with Tyrus. Craning her neck, she began to search for any other injuries she might've missed.....and jumped as the door crashed open, sending a sharp stab of pain through her temples. She'd nearly forgotten her terrible hangover amid the rest of what she was suffering. Damn that French wine!  
  
"Hello, Ryenne, love." Quinn greeted her, closing the door with a quiet snick. "You look rested."  
  
"Hmph." She replied wearily, fixing him with a smile that looked nothing short of a grimace. "You look.....happy."  
  
And indeed he did.....in a very frightening sort of way. Adjusting the lapels of his long, black coat, he grinned slyly in a way that reminded her horribly of a crocodile. In truth, he looked really rather.....cheery, leaning – silhouetted – against the doorway, eyeing her dress with evident distaste.  
  
"Have you decided to forego sleeves completely? Honestly, I thought you couldn't get much worse....."  
  
Glancing down at the bare place where her sleeve had used to be, she glared.  
  
"Why don't you ask Tyrus that?"  
  
He shrugged noncommittally, motioning for her to stand. "Get up."  
  
"I can't very well do that, you idiot - I'm tied to the chair." She reminded him, jerking at her wrists once to demonstrate. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't say a word, crossing the room quickly and flicking out his dagger. For a moment, she thought he would finally slit her throat, but, after a tantalizingly tense moment, he jerked her up roughly by the arm, cutting her bonds in one smooth motion. Before she had time to react, though, he had grabbed her and was quickly tying her wrists together in front of her. He worked with a cruel efficiency – the rope was thin, but well-woven, and tight enough to make escape impossible. Containing any hints of pain, she dropped her gaze to the floor, frustrated and angry – she didn't even noticed that he'd finished until he ran a cold finger across one of the long nail marks on her shoulder.  
  
"Ah, what's this, love?" he asked softly, his hand lingering far too low on her chest for comfort.  
  
Wrenching away defiantly, she took a few wary steps back, stumbling slightly over the back of her dress. "It's nothing," she spat. "I've suffered worse."  
  
"There's worse to come if you don't cooperate with me." He warned, drawing out the length of cloth that had served as her gag before. She backed further away, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she unwittingly cornered herself.  
  
"You're not putting that on me again."  
  
Sighing irritably, he brandished the cloth at her.  
  
"Ryenne, we can do things MY way," he narrowed his eyes threateningly. "Or we can try it TYRUS'S way – there is no YOUR way."  
  
The rough wooden paneling of the wall brushed against her back, snagging slightly on the delicate fabric of her dress. "And what, pray tell, is Tyrus's way?"  
  
"Well, he would have you stripped down and tied to the mast – no shred of dignity left." He shrugged again, a small grin crossing his features. "Not a bad idea, I'll admit, but it would be a huge.....distraction to my crew, and I can't have that."  
  
"I-I.....well, I ....." she spluttered indignantly, flinching as he closed the distance between them, protectively shielding herself as best she could with her bound arms.  
  
He raised the cloth once more, his twitch of a mocking smile now a fully-fledged grin. "So, do you intend to fight me, now?"  
  
Ryenne's heart pounded in her ears, her face heating up at the suggested prospects – Tyrus's punishments. She didn't WANT to give up.....but she COULDN'T fight back. *If only Jack were here.....* she thought miserably – and then shook her head, banishing the notion. *But he isn't. Now – because of him – can I not take care of myself anymore?*  
  
Quinn must've taken this gesture as a 'no', because the filthy rag was suddenly in her mouth, cutting off any reply she might have made, and fouling her breathing. Instinct told her to lash out as he laid a tender kiss on her forehead – a ridiculing gesture – but she held back at the last moment, instead closing her eyes against her own helplessness. Even now, her pride did not outrun her distaste for Tyrus's ideas.  
  
"Well, we'd better be going." Quinn chuckled, pinching her cheek fondly. "Everyone is waiting."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne's morbid curiosity as to what was going to happen to her vanished the moment Quinn pulled her through the doorway, replaced by a sickening horror and dread. Coarse shouting and raucous laughter greeted her ears, most of which she couldn't quite make out, but all of which she could comprehend. The crew she had once loved and known so well, now, gathered around to spit at her feet and call out curses. Tears of remorse welled up in her eyes.  
  
Quinn continued to drag her along by the arm, fluidly working his way through the throng, and she had no choice but to follow numbly. A few rogue hands pinched her shamelessly, and she drew away, vivid memories of Lee's Tavern suddenly plaguing her mind. Quinn neither seemed to notice, nor care about these cruel invasions of er body – he looked as though he was quite enjoying her humiliation.  
  
"Tyrus!" he called, not bothering to hide his growing smirk. His grip suddenly slackened, and he flung her foreward. "Here!"  
  
Completely off-guard and off-balance, she fell into Tyrus's muscular arms, losing any self-control she might have had left. Shrieking, she kicked and squirmed as he threw her over his shoulder – much to the amusement of the rest of the crew – and began to stride across the deck. A few men called out lewd jokes, but it was only Quinn's cutting laughter that reached her ears.  
  
"Cut it out, Caelar." Tyrus grunted as she fought to get her arms into a more useful position. "It's hopeless anyway."  
  
"Put me down!" she shrieked in reply, ignoring his comments. And, much to her surprise, he did put her down – atop a crate in the middle of the crowd.  
  
Two strong pairs of hands latched onto her elbows, effectively making sure that she wouldn't attempt to escape, and Tyrus winked, slapping her firmly across the bottom. Yelping, she leapt nearly a foot into the air, her eyes filling with embarrassed tears that she couldn't bring herself to blink away, nor shed.  
  
"You'd better hope your lover shows up," his breath was hot against her ear. Gritting her teeth in a futile attempt not to blush a deeper shade of crimson, she couldn't help but tense at his next words. "If he doesn't, you'll be mine to do as I please."  
  
Before she could even think about attempting to respond past her gag, the crowd parted, and Quinn stood before her, looking very smug. Everyone went silent in anticipation as he held up a hand, and Ryenne fought to keep her knees from buckling. This was it.  
  
"Behold, gentlemen," he announced, gesturing grandly to her as she stood, shaking, on display like some twisted sort of trophy. "The Sparrow's Whore."  
  
Sucking in a sharp breath, she closed her eyes against the fresh jeers that came at her expense. However, Quinn – it seemed – was not nearly finished with her. Turning, he kept his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "I have a present for you, Ryenne, love."  
  
Her eyes snapped open, against her will – what the HELL was he up to?  
  
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out something she couldn't see through her tear-blurred eyes, and held it aloft, showing the entire crew what it was. They laughed uproariously, and, his eyes glittering maliciously, he took those last few steps towards her, leaned forward, and stuck it into the top of her bodice. She stared in disbelief.  
  
A gray feather. Sparrow.  
  
Jack.  
  
.  
  
ATTENTION! THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT, PEOPLE!  
  
Alright, we know it may be upsetting, but we have decided that we need to take a brief hiatus from working on this story. It's starting to become a burden, and we need to re-organize the mental closet before we continue, so the plot line isn't too screwed up. We'd also like to thank all of you who have read TC thus far, and to apologize for any typos, grammatical errors, or inconsistencies. They were truly unintentional, as most errors are.  
  
We will try to keep you informed as to when we may be posting another chapter. Thank you. 


	32. Dawn

DISCLAIMER: We don't own PotC. Enough said.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Finally another chapter... Thanks to you all for being so patient.  
  
"You don't really plan to go down there, do you, Jack?" Will demanded, peering down at the massive black shape that was the Gryphon. Jack gave him a look.  
  
"What else do you suggest?"  
  
Will thought for a moment, clearly at a loss.  
  
"Well..."  
  
"That's what I thought."  
  
Inching a few feet back from the edge of the cliff, their vantage point, Will shook his head doubtfully, nervously scrubbing a hand through his dark hair. "Jack..."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
Shifting uneasily, as though unsure of what he was about to say, Will sat back on his heels, eyes carefully averted. "Well...do you think Quinn might've had a point...?"  
  
"What do you mean, lad?" Jack asked distractedly, most of his attention still focused on the spyglass he was looking through.  
  
"Well...Ryenne is only one person – what about the Pearl ?" Will's voice faltered slightly as he felt Jack's full attention shift to him, though the spyglass was still in place over his eye. "I mean...are you putting it – or yourself – in danger?"  
  
Jack slowly lowered the glass and turned to Will as if finally hearing what he was saying. His dark eyes were unreadable.  
  
"Of course I am," he replied with a measured ease. His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Everything is dangerous...Why? Reconsidering your offer to help already?"  
  
"It's only that...well, I..."  
  
A hint of anger crept into Jack's voice. "Does no one care enough about this girl to want to help her!?"  
  
"I do, but –"  
  
"There are no 'buts' about this sort of thing, Will! I thought you two used to be bloody friends, and now you don't care enough to –"  
  
"Now, listen here –"  
  
"No, you listen to me! Considering my and Ryenne's relationship up to this point, I should be the bloody last person who should be wanting to save her, and –"  
  
"So why are you going to save her, then!?"  
  
Jack's knuckles were white with anger as he gripped the spyglass tight, looking as though he were narrowly restraining himself from throwing it into the sea.  
  
"Because I love her, you idiot, that's why!"  
  
For a moment, they just stared at each other, the sudden silence echoing with the sound of Jack's words. Will couldn't help but notice that Jack's face registered the same degree of shock that he himself was feeling, and he nervously cleared his throat as the silence drew on.  
  
"Well..." he started, then paused. Jack glared darkly at him, daring him to say more. Feeling defiant, he did. "That certainly sheds a new light on things..."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne stood rigid atop of the crate Tyrus had set her on, her heart pounding furiously as the crew's laughter reached a new peak. She wanted to reach down and tear the feather from her bodice, to shred it to a thousand pieces in defiance of their mockery, but the crewsmen holding her arms did not loosen their grip. Steeling herself with renewed anger, she held Quinn's scornful gaze with her own tearstained one and straightened a little. She would not allow herself to cower before him any longer. From the haughty smirk that suddenly appeared on his face, she guessed he'd noticed.  
  
She was not mistaken.  
  
"Proud to be the Sparrow's little plaything, are you?"  
  
She tilted her chin a little higher, clenching her teeth on the dirty fabric of the gag in her mouth. Did he really expect her to try and answer?  
  
"Well, your lover is late. Do you suppose he's even going to come?"  
  
*Don't listen. Jack will come. He'll -*  
  
"Terribly rude of him, don't you think, gents?" Quinn continued, turning his attention to the crewmen gathered about. "Thinking he can show up late to pick up his own present!" Cupping a hand under Ryenne's chin, he played to their cheers, laying a rough kiss on her cheek. "And what a pretty little slip of a thing she is, too."  
  
Struggling not to cringe at the ever louder whistling and catcalling, Ryenne jerked her head away from him, stumbling slightly over her infuriating skirts. Quinn pinched her cheek with a mischievous grin, his nose wrinkling in contempt.  
  
"We'll want you to look your best for your precious Sparrow, won't we, Ryenne, love?" his hand moved to her remaining sleeve, fingering the dark blue material thoughtfully. From the corner of her eye, Ryenne saw a sly grin split Tyrus's hard face. "Why don't we even this up, then?"  
  
Ryenne couldn't contain a yelp of surprise as he ripped off the sleeve, and eyed her bare shoulder in horror. The cheering grew even louder still, and, holding the sleeve aloft like a twisted sort of trophy, Quinn turned to her and uttered one last low threat before sauntering off.  
  
"If Sparrow doesn't show in twenty minutes, I'm turning you over to Tyrus."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Jumping the last few feet to the ground, Jack peered up at the sheer cliff face he'd just descended, shading his eyes, and blinked. The effect was dizzying, and he had to quell a feeling of nervous nausea as he watched Will searching for another handhold, still about twenty feet up. The climb had been grueling and slow-going – his hands bore the cuts and scrapes to prove it.  
  
Dusting his hands wearily, he glanced over his shoulder to check the position of the sun and cursed – it was already halfway up the horizon. Who knew what sort of trouble Ryenne could be in by now?  
  
"Hurry, Will!" he called softly, throwing a wary glance at the hulking mass of the Gryphon, floating in the dark water nearby. "We've got no time!"  
  
Ducking behind an outcrop of rock, he searched the wide beach for any sign of a patrol or watch. There were none. The only sounds were the gentle wash of the waves upon the shore and the mournful cry of seagulls. No sound came from the Gryphon – at least, none he could hear – but he could see...  
  
"Oof!"  
  
All of a sudden, Jack found himself splayed out on the sand, crushed under Will, all the wind rushing from his lungs faster than he could blink. A sickening crack sounded as his head connected with one of the boulders serving as their cover, and black diamonds of light flashed across his vision.  
  
"I slipped." Will stated sheepishly, rubbing his shoulder.  
  
Coughing as he inhaled sand, Jack pulled himself up into a sitting position, shoving Will off of himself and massaging his aching head. "I said 'hurry', but I didn't mean for you to go that fast, clumsy lout!"  
  
Will looked hurt for a moment, then seemed to brush it off quite easily. Jack tried to swallow his annoyance; he need Will's help, and driving him away now was definitely not going to save Ryenne's life.  
  
"I'm sorry," he muttered, motioning for Will to join him behind the large, concealing boulder. "I don't know what's gotten into me lately."  
  
"Well, I do." Will smirked, all memory of the slur apparently forgotten, and Jack growled, knowing full well what he meant; while he did not in the slightest regret what he had said – without thinking – earlier, he had to admit that he had been as surprised as Will.  
  
There was an uncomfortable pause between them, and then Will said seriously, "Jack, you asked me something once that I've never forgotten, and I think, now, it's my turn to ask you."  
  
"What?"  
  
Will bit his lip for a moment, looking at him as though considering something. Then a slow grin began to spread over his face. "How far are you willing to go for this girl?"  
  
It was now Jack's turn to smile. "I would die for her." And, in his heart, he knew that it was absolutely true: he would do anything.  
  
"Good. Then do you have a plan, Captain Sparrow?"  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne glanced anxiously at the horizon, her heart sinking into her shoes. Jack was not there – he was not coming. It was already past dawn, the pale morning sunlight bouncing in sparkling rivulets over the black water. The beauty of the morning could do nothing to cheer, nor calm her, however. She was beyond any consolation. Jack was not going to come for her – she was lost, now.  
  
Still standing rigid as a board where her captors held her, her eyes darted nervously from Quinn to the horizon and back. He was gracefully perched atop a barrel, as though it were a throne, as placid and patient as ever. A remnant of his infuriating smirk still remained, though subdued somewhat, and he was poised, like a predator waiting for its prey. Giving the shoreline a fleeting glance, he sighed heavily – as though considerably let down – and shrugged, resting his gaze finally upon Ryenne. She had never known terror until she heard his next words.  
  
"Well, Caelar, your time is up."  
  
A sickening sort of dread filled her gut as she futilely attempted to wrench from her captors' grip, such as she would have felt, had she been sentenced to death. Screaming and pleading past the dirty rag in her teeth, she tried to beg, to bargain, to...anything...to keep Quinn from making his next pronouncement. He just stared, his black eyes cold and cruel.  
  
"She's yours, Tyrus, I'm through with her." 


	33. The Bargain

DISCLAIMER: We don't own PotC. And these disclaimers just keep getting more and more BORING!! Face it. Deal with it.  
  
Time slowed down, seconds dragging by like years, as Ryenne watched decider of her fate stride haughtily across the deck, a malevolent smirk on his face. She was deaf to all sound, and it rushed past her ears in a wordless roar, save for one voice. *He raped you, didn't he, Ryenne?* Pressing her eyes shut, she drew in a long breath, choking against the bitter bile that was rising in her throat, and opened them again. Jack wasn't coming.  
  
She was pulled roughly from her thoughts as Tyrus jerked the gag from her mouth, a single silver tear running down her cheek as she jumped in surprise. Tyrus's malicious grin widened as he reached up and thumbed it away.  
  
"Don't want to muffle those pretty screams of yours, now, do we?" he chuckled wickedly, circling her like an overgrown vulture and whispering threats. "I'm going to strip the skin off your pretty little back, and then..." he chuckled again.  
  
*Are you CHASTISING me for saving you!?* Ryenne cringed away from him, shivering convulsively. "Please, Tyrus..." her voice was no more than a whimper.  
  
The quiet scraping of a dagger being pulled from its sheath silenced her, and she waited, muscles tensed, for the feel of the cool steel on her neck.  
  
It didn't come.  
  
"Would you look at all these fancy little buttons! It would be a bloody shame to have them torn to pieces," he paused. "But..."  
  
Once again, the sound of ripping fabric greeted Ryenne's ears, and she shrieked in despair, throwing her arms up in front of herself as her dress was torn away, leaving her standing in nothing but her ridiculous frilled petticoats. Cruel laughter came from every direction. Her bound arms were a poor shield, but she covered herself as best she could, collapsing to her knees as her captors released their rough grip on her elbows. Her face burned in horror and embarrassment. *Say it like you mean it: tell me how handsome and clever I am...*  
  
"To the mast, gents!" Tyrus's voice rang loud and clear as he grabbed a fistful of her hair, hauling her to her feet. "I'm going to enjoy this..."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
The water was cool, but not uncomfortable, as Will furtively swam out to the hulking ship, taking deep breaths and staying underwater for as long as possible before being forced to breathe again. He didn't particularly like Jack's plan; it involved rather too much stowing away and luck for him to feel fully confident about it. But the other man's surprising admission had swayed his feelings, and had increased his respect for Jack himself. After all, he had also risked his life to help Will save the woman he loved.  
  
He was almost in the shadows of the Gryphon when he heard the first scream.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne's entire being seemed to go numb as her arms were jerked forcefully above her head and she was shoved violently against the mast, pulled up until she had to strain to stand on tiptoes, then bound there. She didn't even bother to try and hide the salty tears that rolled down her face, nor the sobs that wracked her bruised body – the situation merited no less. Pressing her forehead against the uneven wood of the mast, she shivered as a cold breeze swept across the deck, uttering a silent prayer, and began to beg.  
  
"Tyrus, please! Let me go! Please! Tyrus–"  
  
The whip lashed across her back, leaving a trail of fiery hot pain in its path, and she cried out, stumbling and losing her precarious balance. The ropes dug into her wrists, cutting already-bloodied flesh, but all the knots held good. She didn't even have enough time to begin collecting herself before the next blow came, doing more damage than the first, opening old scars into new wounds.  
  
"Quinn! Help me! Stop this, I beg you! Quinn, please-"  
  
The tip of the whip scored the back of her neck, and she screamed louder, falling against the mast, scrabbling with her bleeding fingers for some sort of support. *Jack! Oh god, Jack!* Pressing her eyes shut as a long gash tore down her upper arm, she let his name fall from her lips.  
  
"Jack..." Voice cracking, it came out as a feeble sob...  
  
But it was enough.  
  
"Stop!" The familiar voice cut the chill morning air, making Ryenne's eyes snap open in surprise. *Is it...?* The whip stopped.  
  
Turning her head as best she could, Ryenne peered out at the shoreline, squinting through pain and salty tears. There, bathed in the first rays of morning sunlight, was Jack.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Jack paled slightly as he stepped aboard the Gryphon, ignoring a snicker from the crewman who had ferried him from the shore, his stomach clenching into a knot as he felt all eyes upon him. *Dammit, Ryenne. Not again!* His blood boiled as he surveyed the smirking crew of the Gryphon, teeth clenching as his eyes rested upon Ryenne. They had bound her wrists together, running a rope up to the crossbar of the mast and forcing her to remain on tip toes, lest her arms be pulled from their sockets. She was bare to the waist, bleeding whip cuts slashing across her back, and he could see her muscles tense in pain as she twisted her head to look at him.  
  
"Jack..." her voice was frantic, yet weak, humiliation and suppressed rage filling her eyes and lining her tear-stained face. A well-muscled, brutish man with reddish hair stepped forward; Jack could see that he was holding the whip that had made the angry lacerations on her back.  
  
"You keep silent!" he hissed, shoving her so that she stumbled into the mast. Slowly, she regained her balance, but it was obviously a struggle. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, unable to watch and desperately willing himself towards calmness, rationality, and logic. Losing his temper and doing something rash would not help either one of them.  
  
"Well, well, Sparrow. I see you've finally decided to show up." Startled, Jack whirled about to see the owner of the voice – a lean, dark- looking young man – stand from his place in the shadows. He had a sneering grin on his face, and moved with a disconcertingly feline grace. "You're a bit late to pick up your little gift – as you can see, we've already begun unwrapping it for you." He paused, a thoughtful look upon his face. "Although I dare say you'll get to the rest of it soon enough. She IS your little...plaything, after all."  
  
Jack held his peace for the moment, even as he coldly decided how the man would die. Could he be the Tyrus Ryenne had spoken of? So the other man was...?  
  
"Cut her down, Tyrus."  
  
Maybe not. The heavyset brute complied, and Ryenne collapsed to the deck, shoulders shaking with almost-silent sobs. Jack could stand it no longer. Deserting calm for the moment, he rushed to her, taking off his coat and draping it gently around her. He was nearly trembling with fury as he turned to address the man who had exhibited such careless, wanton cruelty.  
  
"What IS this!?" he growled, hands clenched into fists. "What did she ever do to deserve this?"  
  
The man (captain, Jack guessed) sounded bored. "THIS is retribution, Sparrow, and as to what she did – well, you don't really need to know that, now, do you?"  
  
A muffled scream made Jack whip back around, just in time to see the flash of a silver blade leaving its sheath and Ryenne being dragged to her feet. The man called 'Tyrus' held her perfectly still, the rough edge of his dagger pressed to her bare throat. A low chuckle from the dark man drew Jack's attention back, and the corner of the fellow's mouth twitched up into a malicious grin as he stood, meeting Jack's gaze – glare for glare – knowing he now held both Jack and Ryenne in the palm of his hand.  
  
"I believe you came here to make a bargain with me, Sparrow."  
  
Jack's eyes flitted back to Ryenne, swallowing angrily as he watched a drop of blood trickle down her neck, a small gasp from her demonstrating how hard Tyrus actually was pressing. "Show a little mercy! She's done nothing to deserve this! Your business is with me!"  
  
"Mercy," the Gryphon's captain spat, a disgusted sneer upon his face. "is a fool's accord, Captain Sparrow. I thought you, above all people, would know that."  
  
Biting his tongue in anger and frustration, Jack threw one last glance at Ryenne, taking note of the heartrending look of fear in her eyes, and said the six words he'd never planned to say.  
  
"What do you want for her?"  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
DeMuerta. The word rang, unwelcome, in Jack ears, making his head swim with memories. That place...  
  
Shaking his head slightly, he recovered quickly, putting on an air of unconcerned compliance, despite the roiling anger inside himself. Anything for Ryenne. Anything.  
  
"Of course."  
  
But inwardly, a sliver of a smile rested. While it was still slightly worrying that all the man – who had named himself as Quinn, oddly enough – wanted were coordinates to the fabled island, it also seemed that perhaps Jack's original plan was not needed after all. How obvious would it be to this 'Quinn' that he could simply give false coordinates? Could he get away with it? How smart was this man, exactly?  
  
"Would you like them written down?" he asked, watching the captain's face. From behind him, he heard Tyrus chuckle nastily.  
  
Quinn put a hand over his heart, his face nothing but affronted surprise. "What do you take us for, Sparrow? Not all pirates are quite so educated as you."  
  
Jack had just enough time to wonder what he was getting at when the other man added smoothly, "You'll just have to guide us there, Captain...Sparrow."  
  
*Damn* Jack was caught in a trap that should have been obvious, and he knew it. If he refused, he was practically ordering Ryenne's death. Still, though, a shred of tenacious pride remained.  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
Behind him, Ryenne gasped as if in pain, and Quinn smiled nastily.  
  
"Is that it, Sparrow? I thought you cared for her."  
  
*I do!* Jack shouted inside his mind. *But...*  
  
*But nothing*  
  
Head held high, he glared through Quinn, and the anger in his eyes almost made the man take a step backwards.  
  
Almost.  
  
"I will guide you to DeMuerta," Jack growled mechanically, his voice dead, save for the rage flowing through it.  
  
"Excellent. I always suspected you to be a smart man." Quinn's face twisted into a sneer once more, and he offered his hand. "Do we have an accord?"  
  
Without thinking, Jack extended his own hand, grimacing as the other man shook it roughly. "Yes."  
  
Suddenly, there was the sound of a struggle behind them, and Jack spun around to see Ryenne being bundled off by Tyrus, screaming and kicking.  
  
"What are you doing!?" he shouted, starting at Quinn. Before he had taken two steps, though, at least five crewsman's blades were blocking his way. "You were supposed to let her go free!"  
  
Quinn ignored him, though, merely gesturing to the rest of the crew, commanding nonchalantly, "Bind his hands." Then, he walked away, following Tyrus, and Jack was left to face the sneers and grins of Ryenne's old crew as they closed in around him.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne gave a start of surprise as Tyrus dropped her roughly onto something soft, her anxiety escalating as she realized what the something soft was: a bed. Cringing and burying her face in the thin coverlet, she tried futilely to slow her ragged breathing. Tyrus laughed harshly.  
  
"I see you've learned something, Caelar."  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut tight. "Just get it over with – and kill me this time if you have any shred of dignity left in you."  
  
"Hmph." He snorted derisively. "I've got other things to see to."  
  
The door slammed angrily, and, lifting her head just slightly, Ryenne glanced cautiously over her shoulder. She was alone. Using her bound and bleeding arms to push herself up, she surveyed her surroundings tentatively...and sighed. She was in Quinn's cabin once more – the beginning place of all her torture, the place all her humiliation led back to. And she was there alone, for a change.  
  
Where a small feeling of relief had grown, dread suddenly rushed into its place. WHY was she alone? Now that her purpose had been fulfilled, was she to be...disposed of? No – Tyrus would've seen to that himself – he would never pass up an opportunity like THAT. So, what exactly was going on? And Jack – was he alright? She shook her head, angry with herself. *I shouldn't have let him –"  
  
The telltale creak of the door opening behind her broke her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see who's presence she was being...graced...with. Falling back onto the bed in trepidation, she could do nothing but stare, transfixed, as Quinn stepped into the room, suddenly very painfully aware that all she wore was Jack's coat and the thin, cotton petticoats. Raising a thoughtful eyebrow at her, he closed the door behind him with a sharp snick, crossing his arms over his chest arrogantly.  
  
"He would only come if it meant the greatest profit for him, eh?" he scoffed, laughing mirthlessly. "I think you underestimated him a tiny bit, Ryenne, love."  
  
"So I did." She replied tightly, trying to shift the coat to cover her semi-bared chest. It was to no avail, though – her arms were more of an impediment than an instrument. "And don't call me 'love'."  
  
"You look like you're having a little trouble there."  
  
"And I suppose you'd just LOVE to help."  
  
Quinn grabbed her arm violently, hauling her to her feet, and she uttered a sharp gasp as the freshly wounded skin on her back went taut, pain shooting through her entire body. Hissing in frustration and agony as her legs buckled, she blinked back the new tears that had sprung into her eyes, and shoved away his supporting arms, steadying herself. She hadn't even noticed the coat had fallen from her shoulders until he picked it up and slung it across a chair.  
  
"Turn around." He commanded quietly, an underlying threat in his voice, pushing her elbow as if to aid her in the act. Blinking in surprise and suspicion, she paused a moment, not wanting to disobey, but... She complied hesitantly, slowly and warily turning her back on him.  
  
Sucking in a sharp breath as icy fingers traced the new wounds in her skin, she tried to pull away, but his grip on her arm was fierce.  
  
"Stand still. I'm not going to hurt you." He said soothingly, his hands still moving in their cold caress.  
  
"That would certainly be a change." she snapped in reply, his sudden change in mood frightening her. She did not bother to follow his quiet order. Her arm was beginning to ache, locked in his iron grip. "What are you DOING!?"  
  
His arms slowly encircled her waist, pulling her up against him, and he began to kiss her neck – soft, passionate kisses that made Ryenne's stomach churn in something other than fear. For a moment, she forgot who she was, where she was, or the horrible situation she was in – all there was, was the gentle warmth of his chest against her back, his lips on her neck, his hands steadily moving upward... And then - twisting her hands to meet his - the ropes dug in once more, and she remembered.  
  
Tearing out of his grip with a terrified ferocity, she retreated to the far side of the room, snatching up Jack's coat, holding it to herself for protection. Quinn's eyes filled with sorrow and compassion, watching her with a heartrending sort of regret. It almost made her want to return to his arms, to forget what he'd become.  
  
Almost.  
  
"I thought you loved me, Ryenne." He said quietly, more than a hint of question in his tone. Her heart pounded like a drum inside her chest – a hollow, throbbing rhythm.  
  
"I did...once. But that was a long time ago." She tried to make her voice hard, realizing that she could not...that she was on the brink of heartbroken tears. "How can you expect me to love you now? After all this that you've done to me?"  
  
She wanted to bury her face in Jack's coat, to hide from the man standing before her, but she held herself back. The salty, spicy smell of Jack Sparrow wafted up to her, though, as she held it close, lending her the little strength she could muster to go on. Quinn held out his arms, offering and pleading, and she suddenly found her hate for him. Quinn, the manipulating, scheming, lying traitor. Latching onto the feeling, she held herself a little straighter, meeting his coal-black eyes steadily.  
  
"I know what you want from me, Quinn," her voice quavered slightly as his eyes began to become guarded once more, his arms lowering to his sides. A voice tickled the back of her mind. *You'll be fine, don't worry...I'll be right there beside you.*  
  
"And you won't have it." 


	34. The Way to deMuerta

DISCLAIMER: ...yeah...the fact that we even HAVE one of these proves that we don't own PotC...  
  
The corner of Quinn's mouth twisted into a frown, his inky black eyes as sharp as broken glass. "That's the way you want things, is it?"  
  
Ryenne's strength was ebbing away, stolen by the cold draft against her bare shoulders, by the fierce look on Quinn's face. Shivering slightly, she gave a tentative nod, mumbling her answer in a small voice. "Yes."  
  
The room seemed to become colder still as they stood, staring at one another – Quinn's eyes full of fury, Ryenne's full of fear. Twisting the thick-woven fabric of Jack's coat between her shaking fingers, she sighed, dropping her eyes to the floor in shame. The whispering phantom of Quinn's lips on her neck made her blush a deep shade of crimson, convulsive shivers running down her spine, and she backed away a few more steps, until the rough wood of the wall rammed into her back. He was still watching her, calculating and distant. Even his voice sounded a thousand miles away.  
  
"You love him, do you, Caelar?" the question held a bitter bite that made her flinch, pulling the coat tighter to herself.  
  
"I..." Did she love Jack? DID she? "I...don't know..."  
  
Quinn snorted derisively, but did not say a word. Closing her eyes to hold in the unwelcome tears forming in them, she listened to his heavy footsteps as they came closer...closer...until his hand was under her chin, forcing her face upward. She pressed her lips together, teeth clenched, afraid of anything he might do – and unsure of what it would be.  
  
"Open your eyes, Ryenne."  
  
She didn't move.  
  
"Open them!"  
  
His hand tightened on her jaw and she gasped, opening her eyes a fraction. His face was mere inches from hers. She trembled.  
  
"When your precious Sparrow is through toying with you, NEVER even CONSIDER coming back to me – I'll kill you." He shoved a bundle of something at her, a sneer reappearing on his face. "Put these on."  
  
"I can't," she said automatically, shifting it in her arms. "My hands- "  
  
Rolling his eyes, Quinn snatched the bundle away, and Jack's coat along with it. She opened her mouth to protest, but promptly shut it again as he pulled out his dagger, recoiling defensively. Grabbing her wrist irritably, he sawed through the thin cord in a few jerky strokes, and threw her arm back at her with an agitated sigh. Gawking after him for a moment as began to cross the room; she bent and snatched up Jack's coat once more. She stared down at the neat bundle on the floor incredulously for a moment: a pair of perfectly normal brown trousers and a white shirt, remarkably similar to what she had been wearing what seemed a century ago. Before the banquet.  
  
She would have changed immediately, except for one problem: Quinn did not appear to be going anywhere. He merely lounged against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and the beginnings of a nasty smirk upon his face. She knew that asking him to leave would do no good; there was an odd, almost desperate look in his eyes that sent a chill down her back. It went without saying that he wanted this last chance to belittle her pride and dignity.  
  
Eyeing the clothing consideringly, though, she was suddenly surprised to find a strength welling up in her that she had not known she possessed. It warmed her, fueling her anger and letting her forget about the bruises and cuts that marred her skin and caused pain in her every movement.  
  
And so, feeling Quinn's eyes raking over her body, she glanced airily at the coat, tossing it over the chair and looking steadily back at him. She had had enough; her mind felt distant, as if she were not really in control of her actions any longer. She dressed calmly and serenely, neither hurrying nor drawing it out. For a moment Quinn seemed surprised, but then he settled back with a satisfied smile.  
  
When she was done, she gracefully put on Jack's coat again, feeling something hard in the pocket bump her leg as it swung against her. When she put her hand in it to see what it was, she felt, with pleasure, the smooth, cool wood of Jack's compass.  
  
Her half-smile must have alerted Quinn to something, though, because he was at her side in two fast paces.  
  
He gestured to the pocket. "What's in there?"  
  
"Nothing," she said, tensing. "Just a compass."  
  
"Show me," he commanded. Slowly, she took it out, and he snatched it from her, turning it over to look at the sides and then snapping it open to peer at the needle. He snorted in disgust.  
  
"It's broken." Then he appeared to think of something. "Sparrow wouldn't keep a broken compass unless it were worth something. What do you know about it?"  
  
Ryenne schooled her face to indifference and tried to keep her voice level.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
His voice was low and threatening. "Don't lie to me, Ryenne. You KNOW something about this compass, or you wouldn't have been so hesitant to show me."  
  
*Oh...no...*  
  
"I-I wasn't sure what it was..." She stammered, trying not to let her anxiety show through. One of Quinn's eyebrows quirked up into a look of disbelief, and, with his free hand, he slid his dagger out of its sheath, blade flashing as he twirled it neatly. "I...didn't..."  
  
"Ryenne, if I didn't find out what you know about this compass within the next five seconds, thing might become bloody."  
  
"Things are already bloody." She scoffed, tossing her head defiantly. She was getting worried, though; Quinn had always been VERY good with his dagger. Did Jack carry a blade in his coat? She hadn't remembered feeling any in the pockets, but surreptitiously, she slipped her hand in one and her fingers touched cold steel. She felt a little safer.  
  
"One."  
  
Her mind raced for an explanation that didn't involve deMuerta or anything remotely associated with it. Quinn would have no reason to keep either of them alive if he knew what that compass was worth.  
  
"Two."  
  
She could think of none.  
  
"Three."  
  
Tightening her hand on the hilt of the small dagger, she waited for the inevitable.  
  
"Four."  
  
Feeling that she should maybe try to say SOMETHING, she opened her mouth.  
  
"Five." Quinn's eyes glinted. "You're too late, Ryenne."  
  
He moved fast, but for once Ryenne was anticipating it, slipping to the side as his knife sliced through the air where her arm would have been. Adrenaline pounding through her, she lashed out with her foot, knocking him off balance. He recovered quickly, though, spinning with catlike reflexes to face her as she backed up slightly, dropping into a wary crouch. The knife clenched tightly in her hands, now.  
  
"Well, well." His voice was as smooth as oil over ice. "Feisty today, aren't you Ryenne, love?"  
  
"Don't call me that." She hissed, lashing out once more with her knife. He dodged fluidly, slicing his dagger neatly across her abdomen. It cut easily through the thin fabric of the shirt she wore, leaving a long, shallow gash. Quinn clicked his tongue mockingly.  
  
"Oh, now, look what you've made me do." He shook his head sadly, wagging a finger at her. "A good shirt it was, too."  
  
This time, he lunged first, and Ryenne narrowly blocked a swipe to her shoulder. He was stronger and faster than she was, but she was fighting from pure fury, now. Striking away another blow aimed at her chest, she whirled about, landing a solid punch to Quinn's jaw...and swung. The blade grazed his shoulder, tearing through his heavy black coat like silk, leaving a deep wound in his skin.  
  
Jumping back as he growled in pain, Ryenne realized her mistake a moment too late. Uttering a startled cry as his fist collided with her temple; she fell hard to the floor, the dagger skittering out of her grasp. Gasping for air as it rushed from her lungs, she let out an undignified squawk of pain as Quinn placed a foot heavily on her chest.  
  
"Now, tell me about this compass." He commanded in a tone that demanded no nonsense, his eyes glittering angrily.  
  
"I don't know wha-"She began, cut off by a sharp kick to her ribs. Gasping, she tried to roll away, clutching at her ribs. Quinn's foot held her still.  
  
"You are going to tell me what this thing is, if it means I have to break every bone in your scrawny little body!"  
  
"It's nothing-"  
  
His boot moved to her throat, blocking off her air supply. Choking, her hands strained at his ankle, trying to push him away. A glint of light reflected in the corner of her eye as his dagger flashed out, and a line of pain dragged across her left cheek. Bringing her hand to her face, her fingers met blood. Quinn smiled in grim satisfaction.  
  
"No more games, Caelar. I want to know what you're hiding, and I want to know NOW."  
  
"I don't-"  
  
Pain exploded on the other side of her face, this time dealt by the back of his hand. She gasped as her head snapped sideways, the heel of Quinn's boot digging into her windpipe, suffocating her. She couldn't take much more of this, deMuerta or no. She didn't think Jack would appreciate her getting herself killed when he was risking so much to save her. And yet...  
  
Quinn must've noticed the considering look on her face, because his foot pressed a little harder. A pulse beat in her neck; throbbing, reminding her how little breath she was getting.  
  
"How long is this going to take, Caelar? Am I going to need Tyrus's assistance?"  
  
She tried to shake her head no – difficult, considering the lack of movement she was capable of – and his foot lifted slightly. Drawing deep breaths, she spoke calmly to persuade him.  
  
"Quinn, you have to believe me: I know nothing about that compass, except that it's Jack's."  
  
There was a long silence as he glared down at her. She could feel a drop of blood roll from the cut on her cheek, fall on the floor. Then, slowly, he took his foot off of her, a slight frown twitching at the corners of his mouth. Massaging her throat nervously, she warily watched him, sucking in a few more deep breaths before attempting to stand. Before she could even make it to her knees, though, he seized her arm, heaving her roughly to her feet.  
  
"Oh, I believe you..." He replied, his voice dangerously soft. "We'll just have to see what Sparrow has to say about this." He brandished the compass at her with a flourish, sheathing his dagger at the same time.  
  
Struggling futilely to wrench from his grasp, Ryenne's stomach worked into a knot as Quinn lead her to the door. *Oh, Jack...what are we going to do, now?*  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Jack gave a small start of surprise as the door to the captain's cabin banged open and Quinn strode out, dragging a very anxious-looking Ryenne along by the arm. Throwing a sidelong glance at the Irish brute, Tyrus, who was standing guard over him, he craned his neck to get a better view of the girl. She was clothed once more, for which he was very grateful, but she walked with a pained sort of limp and a fresh wound ran along her cheekbone, bleeding in a rivulet down her neck. A sort of guilty regret was in her eyes as she glanced up at him, and she frowned, shaking her head slightly. She seemed to have an almost defeated air about her, her shoulders drooping hopelessly, and it made him wonder if...No.  
  
Seething inwardly, he turned his gaze to Quinn, and he did not like what he saw. The man wore a satisfied grin on his face and walked with a slight swagger in his step, looking as if he had just...  
  
"What have you done to her!?" Lunging against the arms that held him back, Jack twisted his wrists painfully in their bonds, losing any sense of repose he might have had left. "If you've so much as TOUCHED her, so help me, I'll-"  
  
Quinn grinned knowingly, shrugging his shoulders with too-casual an air. "Don't worry, Sparrow – she's still useful to you." Chuckling at Jack's disgusted glare, he reached into his pocket, removing something that made Jack's blood run cold as ice water.  
  
The compass.  
  
"I only hoped you could help me with a little riddle."  
  
Quickly masking his surprise and apprehension, Jack glared evenly, shrugging his own shoulders in reply. "A broken compass? What does that have to do with Ryenne?"  
  
"I found it in your coat pocket." Quinn said smoothly, turning the small russet box over in his hand. "Tell me, Sparrow...why would you keep a broken compass in your dress coat pocket?"  
  
"I...uh..."Jack sputtered, shrugging again. "What does it matter to you? I want to know what you've done to Ryenne!"  
  
Quinn grabbed Ryenne's arm and she stumbled into him. Drawing aside the folds of the coat, he revealed a long, shallow cut across her abdomen, blood staining her white shirt. She seemed to almost sag against him in exhaustion, and Jack gritted his teeth to see them so close together.  
  
Quinn gestured to the wound, and for the first time, Jack noticed the gash he himself sported on his left arm.  
  
"This is what I've done to her. And there will be more if you don't tell me what this broken compass is."  
  
Jack didn't bat an eye as he said without hesitation, "It's nothing."  
  
Quinn raised an amused eyebrow. "Interesting." Slipping the compass back into his pocket, he shoved Ryenne forward with a bored sigh. "You had better say goodbye to her Sparrow – this will be the last you see her on this voyage..." he grinned nastily. "...Or ever, if you don't cooperate."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Will crouched warily in the darkness of the Gryphon's hull, watching and waiting. It had been easy enough to board – the entire crew was on the uppermost deck, eager to witness Carolyn's (Ryenne, he reminded himself) torture and humiliation. Climbing up the sweep furthest back on the stern, he'd climbed in through one of the open cannon holes – a tight fit, but he'd done it nonetheless – and made his way down to the brig, exactly where Jack had instructed him to go. All his instincts had told him to go to the uppermost deck himself, to do whatever necessary to rescue Car-Ryenne. Her screams were almost unbearable.  
  
Wait for the opportune moment. That was what Jack had told him. Well, he'd been waiting for hours, restless and filled with dread. Something should have happened by now. The screaming had long since stopped, but what that meant, he had no clue.  
  
He was just about to make his move, when they brought her down. 


	35. The Brig

DISCLAIMER: ...yeah...  
  
AUTHORS' NOTE: Um...how exactly does one get the italics to work on this site? Our italics just don't show up...  
  
Alone in the darkness of the brig the young lad, Quinn, waited and sulked. Scrubbing a hand through his sandy blonde hair, a restless sigh escaped his lips and he leaned back against the bars of his cell.  
  
"Useless..." he muttered under his breath, grimacing. Captain Jack had called him useless. Well, he wasn't useless...just impulsive. He had been so desperate to prove himself that he had ended up doing the exact opposite.  
  
His stomach growled and he leaned his head against the wall, trying to guess what time it was. He decided on shortly after noon; the captain should be back soon, and hopefully with Ryenne in tow. If not...  
  
He straightened at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from above. Peering into the shadowy darkness, the single flame in the sconce on the wall suddenly became two as Barlowe, the second mate, stopped in front of the cell. Quinn turned his face away; Barlowe had been one of the first to take him under his wing – in a rough sort of way – back when he had first begged for the Pearl to take him aboard. The man probably hated him now.  
  
For a moment Barlowe stood looking contemplatively at him, the candle he held casting ominous shadows across his face. Then he shook his head and pulled out a large key ring, muttering under his breath as he unlocked the cell.  
  
"Bloody Gibbs and his bloody hunches...too many hasty people, rushing out into flaming danger without bloody thinking first..." Quinn could barely hear him, but he had a fairly good idea as to what he was talking about: the captain wasn't back yet.  
  
Keeping his eyes downcast, he stepped out, jumping slightly as Barlowe grasped his arm.  
  
"Mr. Gibbs says you are to go back to your normal duties, and to prepare to make way."  
  
"Why?" Quinn asked curiously; he couldn't help himself.  
  
"That's none of your business," Barlowe snapped, then relented slightly. "Look here, boy. I've always liked you – you're a good lad – but what you did was bloody foolish."  
  
Quinn hung his head. "Yes, I know."  
  
"Then why did you do it?"  
  
He opened his mouth to respond, but Barlowe raised a hand to stop him.  
  
"Never mind; I think I can guess." A rare smile appeared on his face, and Quinn gaped incredulously as he gave him a slight nod. "Now get up there."  
  
Quinn was only too happy to oblidge.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Gibbs stood at the tiller, ignoring all of the activity around him as he scanned the horizon with Jack's spare spyglass. The speck had disappeared momentarily; grunting in frustration, he adjusted it slightly – there it was again, the undeniable shape of a black sail heading quickly away from Port Royale. Snapping the spyglass shut, Gibbs began bellowing orders to the crew.  
  
They didn't have much time, if his hunch was correct. Jack had not returned yet, and he wasn't ever going to if they didn't do something. It was all because of the girl, but Gibbs couldn't blame Jack for that; Ryenne had grown on him, too. What he was angry about was the fact that Jack had left them with not so much as a plan or hint at what to do should something go awry. And so, as acting captain of the Black Pearl, Gibbs had decided to go on instinct.  
  
It hadn't been that difficult to deduce what, exactly, the rival pirate captain would want in return for Ryenne; Jack's exploits were known far and wide, and deMuerta was one of the more believable tales.  
  
Despite his anger, Gibbs felt a small rush of pride in his captain. For while many people, pirate or no, had heard the stories about the famous Jack Sparrow, there was only one thing most did not suspect: almost all of the stories were true. Even so, though, that did not explain what he had gotten himself into this time. If he were on that ship (which he was, Gibbs was certain), he was either in charge of it, or was a prisoner. And there was only one way to find out.  
  
The first mate gritted his teeth, knuckles white as he gripped the tiller.  
  
"Curse you, Jack," he muttered. "You said you weren't a fool."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ducking behind a large crate as heavy footsteps approached, Will held in his breath, trying to be as silent as possible. The sounds of an ensuing struggle carried easily to him, punctuated by Ryenne's indignant shouts.  
  
"Put me down, Tyrus!"  
  
Will peered around the edge of the crate curiously, blinking against the sudden bright flickering light of a lantern. A tall thug was making his way leisurely down the stairs, a squirming, kicking shape slung his shoulder that could only be Ryenne. Had it been any other situation, Will would have laughed.  
  
"Put me down!" She ordered shrilly, pounding her fists into the man's back. "You've no right to be doing this to me!"  
  
"Since when does 'right' have anything to do with this, Caelar?" The man replied in a bored tone. Will prayed desperately that he wouldn't stay to guard her; if he did, communication would be nearly impossible.  
  
Opening the door to the iron-barred cell that stood not ten feet away from where Will himself was sitting, the man dropped Ryenne rudely inside with a shrug of his shoulders. Landing hard on her bottom, with a grunt she scrambled quickly to her feet, trying futilely to push her way out of the cell. 'Tyrus' knocked her back easily, the force slamming her into the wall, and locked the door with a loud clank. Will had to use all of his willpower to keep himself in hiding as the other man chuckled, dangling the keys just out of Ryenne's reach for a moment. Half-slouched against the wall for support and gasping in pain, the scowl on her face was blatantly obvious.  
  
"You know something, Caelar?" Tyrus said nastily. "You DO belong down here: you're trash. You always have been, and you always will be. You and your Sparrow, both."  
  
Glaring at Tyrus through half-closed eyes, her reply was nearly inaudible to Will. "Someday, Tyrus, you will regret the moment you first laid your hands upon me."  
  
"Not likely, Caelar." Chuckling mockingly, the man turned and disappeared slowly up the stairs, shaking his head in cruel amusement.  
  
As soon as the creaking of stairs faded and Will was sure 'Tyrus' was out of earshot, he slunk out from his hiding place, making as little noise as possible. Ryenne's back was to him as she slumped defeatedly against the bars of the cell and he could just barely see her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Pausing a moment, he watched her with a renewed sense of curiosity. It had not sunk in until that very moment that this poor, tortured creature was once the young girl he'd laughed with, made mischief with, grew up with. Just crouching there, he felt as though he'd regained something lost – almost like a piece of his childhood. He'd never even dreamed he'd ever see her again...and there she was, right in front of him. It was all too tragic that their reunion had to take place in a situation like this.  
  
Shaking himself out of his short reverie, he advanced a few quiet steps, calling softly to her.  
  
"Carolyn." She didn't look up. "Carolyn!"  
  
She still made no sign that she was aware of his presence, sliding to the floor with a long sigh and pulling her knees to her chest. He was loathe to startle her, but he could not get her attention any other way. Squatting next to the bars, he carefully slid a hand through, and...  
  
Ryenne leapt nearly a foot in the air, trying to tear away as he grabbed her arm frantically. "Who are –"Her shout was abruptly cut off as he clapped a hand hurriedly over her mouth, attempting to speak as soothingly as possible.  
  
"Carolyn – it's me, Will." He whispered, not taking his hand away. "I'm only here to help. But, please, you need to keep quiet or someone might come down."  
  
Her hand latched onto his wrist, tugging his hand off her mouth. "Will?" Slowly turning to face him, she still kept a hold on his arm. "Is it really?"  
  
"Yes, it's me."  
  
Her expression changed from wondrous relief to anger in a flash.  
  
"What in the bloody hell are you doing here!? If you're found, you'll be killed straight off, and no one will be able to do a thing about it!"  
  
"Then I won't let them find me, will I?" He replied lightly.  
  
"Will, it's not something to joke about."  
  
"I'm not joking, Carolyn."  
  
"My name isn't Carolyn anymore."  
  
"It's the name you were born with, christened with –"  
  
"And that's precisely why I don't want it. What right does a pirate have to use a christened name?"  
  
"You're not a pirate, Carolyn."  
  
"I am, Will. I have been since I was sixteen." She threw his arm back at him. "And my name is Ryenne."  
  
Furrowing his eyebrows angrily, he leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms obstinately over his chest. "Well, I'm sorry then, miss. You see, I came here to help rescue Carolyn Rutherford, an old friend of mine."  
  
"Stubborn, stubborn. You always have been, and no doubt you always will be." She snorted. "But I'm afraid you've wasted your time. The only person here is just me, Ryenne Caelar, the pirate."  
  
"Well, you're not a very good pirate, are you? Getting yourself into a mess like –"  
  
"Oh, not good like Jack Sparrow, who delivers himself freely into the arms of those who would kill him, and for nothing!" her voice had an edge to it that was not to be provoked, her eyes glittering angrily. Will provoked her anyway.  
  
"He came here for YOU!"  
  
"A lot of good it did him!"  
  
*He LOVES you,* Will thought fiercely, but kept his mouth shut. No doubt Jack would not appreciate him giving out that little piece of information. He would tell Car-...Ryenne himself when the time was right. *At the opportune moment.*  
  
"What did they want from him?" he asked mildly, obviously throwing Ryenne off-balance. "I mean, why is he still on board?"  
  
"How do you know he's still on board?"  
  
He rolled his eyes impatiently. "He wouldn't leave without you."  
  
"Then he's more a fool than I first thought."  
  
Will frowned, wounded by her sharp manner. "You're not like you used to be, Carolyn..."  
  
"No, I'm not. Thing changed after you abandoned –"  
  
"I had no choice!"  
  
She continued as though she had never been interrupted. "After you abandoned me, I had to look out for myself. Things changed. But you've changed too, haven't you, Mr. Turner?" A bitter smile twitched at the corner of her lips. "You had no trouble finding someone new to keep you company."  
  
Will stiffened. "Don't bring Elizabeth into this; can I help it if I love her?"  
  
"I loved you, Will, and you STILL left!"  
  
"You were the daughter of a LORD, Carolyn!"  
  
"And she is the governor's daughter!" his shocked expression must have been painfully obvious because she shook her head a sad sort of smile on her face. "I was drunk, Will. Not deaf."  
  
His mouth opened to speak, but he didn't know what to say. Working his jaw for a moment, he sighed. "It was Jack's decision to come after you."  
  
"And it will be my fault if he dies."  
  
"He knew the risk."  
  
"Then, why did he still come? Doesn't he wonder what will happen to the Pearl if he dies?"  
  
"I asked him that myself, and he...well, he..." Scrubbing a hand anxiously through his hair, he shook his head. "You'll have to ask him for yourself."  
  
"What if I don't get the chance?" For once, her retort didn't sound snappish, but rather, confused and worried. She wanted to be thankful that he'd come to help her, but she'd already been through so much that it was nearly impossible for her to hold on to any hope at all.  
  
For the first time, Will noticed the long, bleeding gash that ran along her cheekbone. Reaching his hand through the bars of the cell once more, he tentatively put a hand under her chin, turning the wounded side of her face towards him. She didn't shy away.  
  
"What happened to you?"  
  
"Nothing," she replied haltingly, shifting uneasily. "Just...Quinn."  
  
Will's face twisted in confusion. "Quinn? The little lad on the street? How could he have done –"  
  
"No, not him." She flinched as he traced a finger along the wound. "I'm talking about – "she realized what he'd said. "Quinn? Is he alright? Is he hurt? He's not hurt, is he?"  
  
Will held up a hand to stop her. "He's fine; just a few cuts and scrapes. I'm asking about you."  
  
She shifted again, pulling her coat closer around herself, and – for a moment – he caught sight of a dark stain low on her shirt. "I'm fine. Don't worry."  
  
"What is that?" he took his hand away from her face, tugging gently on one side of her coat. "Let me see."  
  
"It's nothing." She protested, but let the coat fall open, revealing a large tear in the fabric of her shirt that was encrusted with blood. Another long wound ran across her abdomen. Sighing reluctantly, she shrugged. "It's just a shallow cut."  
  
"Have they done anything else to you?"  
  
"Nothing I can't handle." Her voice sounded defensive.  
  
"They didn't..." he cleared his throat, unable to ask the question. "...did they?"  
  
She pulled away from him, retreating to the far side of the cell. "I'm fine. Stop worrying about me."  
  
"Who is the Quinn you're talking about?"  
  
Her answer was short and concise. "A thief and a mutineer. He's captain of this ship."  
  
"And he did this to you?"  
  
"You know, Jack is the one you should be worrying about, not me."  
  
Suddenly remembering Jack's final words to him, Will felt anxious. How long had it been since he'd come aboard the Gryphon, since it had started sailing? Was Jack still alive?  
  
"I wish I knew what was going on up there...I have to do something." He whispered fiercely, climbing to his feet.  
  
"And what would you plan to do?" Ryenne asked nastily, retreating back into her defensive, heated state. "Storm the ship all by yourself? No offense, but I'd be putting my gold on the crew."  
  
"You're certainly optimistic, aren't you?" he snapped, starting to pace back and forth in front of her.  
  
"As optimistic as a person locked in a brig can be."  
  
*Wait for the opportune moment...*  
  
"You know, Ryenne Caelar, you really are very annoying."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶ 


	36. Leverage

DISCLAIMER: sob…Don't make me say it…

Jack guided the tiller wearily, unwilling yet resigned to his fate. It had been a week since he'd boarded the _Silver_ _Gryphon_ and he'd neither heard nor seen any sign of Ryenne since the first day. But, he hadn't heard of the discovery of any stowaways either, for which he was grateful - knowing that Will was somewhere on the ship was heartening, at least.

            The voyage had been fairly easy going so far - weather wise, in any case - but he had the distinct feeling that it was going to get very much worse very soon. And he wasn't only thinking about the roiling black thunderclouds overhead. Thus far, Quinn had little to do with him; save to check on the progress of the voyage every few hours and to threaten Ryenne's life if anything was to go wrong. But, unfortunately for Jack, Tyrus was at his shoulder every waking moment.

            The man was insistent upon recounting every filthy little detail of Ryenne's mutiny and the torture that followed, and telling it once was never enough. Jack had had to hold back from lashing out several times already, telling himself it would do him no good if he was rash - that it would not help Ryenne in the least. And so, biting his tongue until he tasted blood and gripping the tiller with white-knuckled intensity, he was forced to listen to the same gruesome tales over and over again until he thought he would be sick. But, he logged the information away, learning as much as he possibly could about the crew that held him captive.

            The memory of the moment was one Jack would have ingrained in his mind forever - one that stirred up memories of his own; watching Ryenne sitting on the ledge at deMuerta, finally deciphering a piece of her past. Although…_this_ version was far more detailed than he'd ever wanted to hear.

            "-and the bloody woman thought she could fight me with only a piece of rope!" With an evil chuckle, Tyrus slapped Jack hard on the back, knocking him roughly into the tiller. Jack glared. "A rope! Bloody stupid female…"

            "Is that so?" Jack was clenching his teeth so hard he expected to hear his jaw snap at any moment. Phantom screams haunted his ears - Ryenne's screams.

            "I tell you: that girl is bloody feisty," he nudged Jack in the ribs. "Not that you wouldn't already know that yourself."

            "I -" Jack began to protest heatedly. Tyrus continued as though he didn't notice.

            "Kicking and screaming, she was, but one little slice with the dagger, and…" he grinned, miming something Jack dearly hoped he'd never see again. He couldn't take very much more of this… "Scrawny as Caelar is, she sure has some nice -"

            "LAND HO!" Jack shouted, hoping to drown out Tyrus's next words. The other man stopped talking abruptly, shading his eyes with a hand, though there was no sun to impede his vision. 

            "What's going on here?"

            Whirling around, Jack found himself face to face with Quinn, and swallowed. There was no land; he hadn't really _seen_ anything…and what would he do now? _Idiot… _he thought furiously. Quinn's eyes narrowed, staring past him, and a satisfied grin spread across his face.

            "Nice work, _Mr._ Sparrow," he said quietly. "Perhaps Miss Caelar will live to see the end of this voyage, after all."

            Confused, Jack turned back to the tiller, squinting at the horizon where a narrow gray strip of land stood out among the endless blue waves.

            _deMuerta._

vvv

   Days blended into nights in the shadowy underworld of the ship's belly, and there had been no other signs of life for Ryenne and Will than each other. No one had come down to check on Ryenne for days, or had even bothered to make sure she was still alive. She and Will were becoming very cold, tired, hungry, and generally miserable. They had taken turns resting while the other stood guard, leaning back to back through the bars of the cell. This helped somewhat to stave off the chilly damp that permeated the very air, even though the one asleep would awaken every time the ship lurched with a sore neck and less energy than when they began.

            It was Will's turn to scrape up what little rest he could get, and he had nearly drifted off to sleep when Ryenne's stomach gave a loud rumble. Again.

            "Was that you?" he muttered wearily, letting his eyelids slide shut.

            "Of course it was me. Who else would it have been?"

            "I don't know."

            Sighing, Ryenne mumbled something inaudible under her breath.

            "What did you say?"

            She sighed again. "Hot spiced wine and slow-roasted turkey. With potatoes."

            "Oh no," Will groaned, rubbing his temples. "Here we go again."

            "That was the last decent meal I had before I ran away."

            "I _know_. You've said that three times."

            "If a meal like that were offered to me right now, I'd give up piracy forever."

            "That's nice. Now shut up, before you get _me _started."

            His stomach growled, and Ryenne gave a small laugh.

            "Too late, it would seem." She was silent for a moment, and then… "Mangoes with cream."

            Will bit his tongue and didn't respond; she was doing it on purpose, now.

            "Strawberry tart."

            "Plum duff with raisins."

            Will twiddled his thumbs.

            "Beef stew with carrots and onions and thick broth and -"

            His stomach growled again, long and loud.

            "Argh," he said eloquently. It would be impossible for him to sleep, now; there was, quite literally, visions of sugar plums dancing in his head, and he wanted to eat every one of them. While strangling Ryenne at the same time, of course. "I'm glad _you_ think all this is funny, at least."

            "I can see how this could be harder for you. You're not used to missing a meal, are you? Poor boy."

            "I -" he began to protest, but something suddenly occurred to him. "When _was_ the last time you had a decent meal?"

            "Poor pirates can't afford to eat decently."

            "Jack is a poor pirate, and he seems to get along well enough." Will pointed out.

            "No, he's not. And he's as skinny as a rail anyway!" she paused a moment, looking ponderous, then whispered to herself. "Not that that's bad…"

            "Hmm?"

            "Oh, nothing."

            Will chuckled. "You _like_ him, don't you?"

            "No." she replied too quickly, and he felt her shift against the bars.

            "You do, admit it!"

            "There's nothing to admit!" she countered defensively, squirming. "Anyway, why does it matter?"

            "It doesn't. I'm just curious."

            She snorted, and her stomach rumbled once more. "Oh, don't they care that I'm _starving_ down here?"

            "Probably not, considering what they've done to you already."

            "I don't suppose it matter anyway; it'd only make them happier to know…I'll be they _do_ know!" She laughed mirthlessly, her voice bitter and sulking. "I'll bet they're up there having a party this very moment."

            Will laughed as well, shaking his head. "I doubt it."

            Ryenne ignored him. "Probably up there munching blueberry tarts and drinking French wine…" her stomach growled, as if to punctuate the statement.

            Drawing his knee into his chest with a shiver, Will sighed and scanned the shadowy dark of the brig, trying to tune out Ryenne's distracted mumblings about succulent mutton chops and raspberry scones. His eyes alighted on the crate he'd previously been using as a hiding place and he brightened slightly.

            "Ryenne, what do you suppose is in those boxes?"

            "A leg of lamb." She replied listlessly, throwing a bored glance over her shoulder at the large box he was gesturing to. "Probably just wood and tar for making repairs to the ship, with _my_ luck."

            "Would they really put _wood_ in a _wooden_ box?" he asked skeptically, hauling himself slowly to his feet.

            "I don't know…maybe? They _are_ pretty pathetic."

            "No one is _that_ pathetic, Ryenne." Running his hands over the rough lid of one of the crates, he slid his fingers under the edge and tugged. Nothing happened. "They're nailed shut!"

            "Oh, _really_? Well that's just _too_ bad…" Ryenne muttered sarcastically, tugging absentmindedly at the lapels of her coat. Will glared.

            "Give me something to open it!"

            "Honestly, Will, what would _I_ have that would help you open that thing?" 

            "I don't know…a knife or something!"

            "Don't _you_ have a knife?"

            Cursing himself for his stupidity, Will fumbled around his belt in search of his dagger. Unsheathing the blade with a hiss of steel against leather, he grinned sheepishly, holding it up. Ryenne snorted in disgust.

            "Idiot…"

            Prying the nailed cover off the crate was no easy task, but Will managed it within ten minutes. Grunting and straining, he'd muffled the wood's protesting groans and creaks as best he could. Flashing a smug smile at Ryenne, who watched intently from her place leaning against eh bars of the cell, he removed the cover and brushed aside the straw packing to see…

            "What is it?"

            Grimacing, he grabbed one of the several pitted glass bottles, holding it at arm's length as though it would bite him at any given second, and lifted it aloft for her to see. The amber liquid inside sloshed noisily, almost seeming to glow in the dim half-light, and he groaned in revulsion.

            "Rum."

vvv

            Ryenne stared uncertainly at the bottle in Will's hand, not quite sure what to make of this new discovery. One the one hand, liquor _was_ sustenance - which she dearly needed. And, on the other hand, it was, well…rum. Would it be worth the risk of having Tyrus - or worse, Quinn - come upon her while she was drunk? A short mental battle ensued, in which she decided that the former aspect of the drink was the more important at the time. Stretching her hand out through the bars of the cell, she crooked a finger at Will.

            "Bring it here."

            He looked doubtful. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, last time -"

            "It's the closest we can get to food. You don't want to die of starvation down here, do you?" she reasoned, quirking one eyebrow up at him. He sighed.

            "Well, no…but -"

            "Good, then. Bring it to me."

            Shaking his head distrustfully, he slowly crossed to her, eyeing her thoughtfully for a moment before handing her the bottle. A small smile crossed her face as her fingertips curled around the cool glass, as though she could already feel the rich liquid coursing down her throat. _Anything_ in her stomach would be better than nothing. Drawing the bottle towards herself with a rapturous expression fixed on her face, she was met with a sharp _clang_, her hand jarring painfully. _The bottle wouldn't fit through the bars._

            "What?" she cried, giving the bottle another vicious tug. It did not slide through, remaining so tantalizingly close, and yet so far…

            "What is it?" Will asked curiously, looking up from riffling through the straw packing of the crate. "Is something wrong?"

            "It-it won't fit!"

            "What do you mean 'won't fit'?"

            "It won't come through the bloody bars!" she said indignantly, pulling desperately at the neck of the bottle where it had become lodged.

            He looked confused, incredulous. "That bars aren't _that_ narrowly spaced, are they?"

            "Apparently they are!" Another tug, to no avail. "Help me!"

            Standing, he grasped the bottle, turning it in different directions. It was round with a narrow neck, and the amber liquid sloshed about with every attempt, but _it_ _would_ _still_ _not_ _fit_ _through_. Ryenne pulled, he pushed. She wrenched, he twisted. Nothing worked and, finally, they had to admit defeat. With a vexed sigh, Ryenne slumped down to the floor, drawing her knees up and eyeing Will, who had been left holding the renegade rum.

            "You might as well just drink it."

            He looked askance at the bottle, and then at her.

            "No!"

            "Well, unless you somehow find something else remotely edible down here, that's all we've got."

            "But…it just wouldn't be fair."

            She rolled her eyes. "Your point…?"

            "That was it."

            Ryenne leaned her head against the bars and closed her eyes.

            "Just drink the damned rum, Will."

            Hesitatingly, he uncorked the bottle and stared at it. He would only have a few sips, enough to quell the persistent grumbling in his stomach. Throwing Ryenne one last pitying glance, he brought the cool glass up to his parched lips. It was sweet as it burned its way down his throat, fiery heaven; it was no wonder why Jack was so enamored with the stuff.

            After a few mouthfuls, he was already beginning to relax. Suddenly a thousand escape routes and plans swam through his mind, each better than the last. They would get out of here soon, survive this whole ridiculous ordeal. He would be able to go home, where Elizabeth was undoubtedly worried about him. The _Pearl_ would be safe, and the _Gryphon_ would return to the hands of _good_ pirates. Jack and Ryenne would share their feelings for each other, and...well, do whatever they would do...

            Yes, indeed, he was feeling much better. And the best part of it all was that he still had most of the bottle left.

vvv

            Jack sighed, staring ahead at the rocky cliffs they sailed towards and almost wishing that he hadn't walked into Lee's Tavern all those months ago. But that wasn't a fair thought; of all the trouble Ryenne had caused, only about half was truly her fault...and she was worth all of it and more. In fact, thinking about her was one of the few things that kept him going, and now he no longer had to listen to Tyrus's horrific memoirs. Quinn had taken to remaining at his side every second, monitoring the last short leg of the voyage.

            Tearing his eyes away from the ever-approaching isle for a scant moment, he peered thoughtfully up at the storm clouds overhead, estimating the amount of time they had before it began to rain. If the wind continued the way it was going, they would reach Isla deMuerta well before a single raindrop was shed. Nodding in a depressed sort of satisfaction, he lowered his eyes once more to find Quinn staring at him expectantly.

            "How long?" the man asked simply, tugging absentmindedly at his own coat sleeve.

            "An hour; two at most." Jack replied, avoiding Quinn's eyes. It was hard enough to muster  the words to say when he wanted nothing more than to the ram the cold steel of his blade into Quinn's heart, but he could not force himself to look into those hard black eyes; hollow yet mocking. Quinn nodded in reply and reached into his pocket, pulling out the compass. Jack tensed.

            "You never told me what this thing does, Sparrow."

            "It doesn't _do_ anything: it's broken." 

            Quinn snorted. "It does something; I'm sure of that."

            "Then _you_ tell _me_ what it does," Jack snapped, gripping the tiller harder. "Because the damned thing has been broken for as long as _I_ can remember."

            "Why do you keep it, then, if it's so obviously useless?"

            Jack shrugged, fixing his yes upon the shoreline once more. "No reason."

            "You know, Sparrow...I don't believe you."

            "Why would you? A pirate's life is based upon lies."

            Quinn slipped the compass back into his pocket.

            "While that is likely true for most pirates, I personally find that it's usually easier to simply be honest - which means that sooner or later, you _will_ tell me the truth about this."

            "What makes you so confident about that?"

            Quinn's voice became dangerously low. "Because, _Mr. Sparrow_, I have something you don't."

            "And what is that?" Jack spat, grimacing as the other man's grin widened.

            "Leverage."


	37. The Bargain Fulfilled

DISCLAIMER: We don't own PotC.  
  
Ryenne slouched sulkily against the bars of the cell watching Will gulp down the last of the rum with a fevered intensity, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed. She didn't begrudge him for drinking it, no, but he didn't have to look like he was enjoying it quite so much.  
  
"Bloody bars..." she muttered furiously, kicking them with a snarl.  
  
Will wandered over, looking determined, knife in hand and empty bottle at his side. He was definitely tipsy, if not flat-out drunk, and Ryenne decided to do her best to ignore him until the effects of the alcohol had passed. Suddenly, though, the lock on eh door began to rattle behind her. Startled, she curse, turning to see what he was doing.  
  
He was bent over the chain, brows furrowed in concentration as he attempted to pick the lock with his dagger. It did not seem to be going very well so far; the dagger's end was too wide for much of it to fit inside the small opening, and it kept slipping as he fumbled clumsily. Snorting in disgust, she moved to the other wall, closing her eyes.  
  
"Just give it up, Will; it's never going to work."  
  
There was no response from him except for a sharp click that made Ryenne's heart leap into her throat and her eyes pop open. Will was standing just outside the cell, swaying slightly and looking exceedingly pleased with himself. While Ryenne gaped, he gave the cell door a slight push, and, with a groan of un-oiled hinges, it swung open.  
  
She was free.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
The eerie calm before the storm had set upon the Gryphon, making Jack edgy and tense, his guidance of the tiller more jerky and abrupt than it had been before. Quinn's haughty assumptions that he would reveal the purpose of the compass echoed in his ears, one thing especially.  
  
"Leverage..." he muttered under his breath, throwing a dirty look at Quinn's back. The thought of Ryenne locked up somewhere beneath his very feet made him fume. As far as he knew, no one had even gone down to her since she had been taken – for all they knew, she could be dead. She's not dead, he told himself quickly, banishing the thought. Ryenne would not give up on him...he hoped.  
  
"How are we sure this is the place?" Tyrus's booming voice echoed easily across the deck, making Jack's ears prick to the conversation.  
  
"How are you certain it isn't?" Quinn replied in his cool, calm baritone.  
  
"We can't expect him to be telling the truth!"  
  
"We have the girl."  
  
"She's not worth – "  
  
"She's worth enough; Sparrow cares for her, and that is enough." Quinn's voice had an edge to it, now. "No more questions. If this is the place, then fine; if it's not...we have our ways of persuasion, don't we?"  
  
Tyrus's chuckle burned Jack's ears and he gritted his teeth, willing himself to control his temper. "That we do, Captain."  
  
Control yourself, mate. You're nearly through this...  
  
"Captain, what is Sparrow doing?"  
  
Blinking, Jack shifted his attention back to the approaching cliffs in front of them. The seemingly unbroken cliffs. Grinning mischievously, he stood a little straighter, all interest in the conversation forgotten. Despite everything, all the strings attached to this particular voyage, it was still a huge relief to see the gateway to deMuerta, and now all he had to do was...  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Sparrow!?"  
  
Ignoring the man's hand clawing into his shoulder, Jack wildly spun the tiller and braced his feet as the ship reeled, chuckling as he saw Quinn cringing in horror, and...  
  
They were there.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Groaning in pain, Ryenne leaned heavily against the open crate she'd just collided with, rubbing the back of her aching head ruefully. No sooner than she'd stepped out of the cell, her heart swelling with the ecstasy of her newfound semi-freedom, the ship gave an almighty lurch, sending her crashing, head over heels, into the mountain of crates and boxes that sat on the other side of the brig. And, as if that wasn't enough, a sharp, throbbing pain shot up and down her left leg, a warm trickle of blood soaking the leg of her trousers. Running her fingers down her thigh tentatively, she found the cause of the ache: a piece of broken glass the size of her palm had driven itself into the skin of her leg, impaled deeply like the blade of a dagger. Gasping in horror, she choked back the bitter bile rising in her throat and shook her head in revulsion. There was nothing for it; she would have to pull it out.  
  
Grasping the shard with shaking hands, she drew a long breath and shuddered. Her leg twitched in pain and she wildly fought the urge to cry out, eyes filling with reluctant tears. Steeling herself as best she could, she tugged.  
  
"Bloody hell!" She hissed, gritting her teeth and sucking in a few sharp breaths as her hands slid their grip, fingers slicing open on the razor-like edges of the glass. Letting out a strangled sob, she wiped her bleeding palms on her trousers and tentatively took hold of the glass once more.  
  
"Urgh..." Will's muffled groan made her bolt upright, hastily releasing her grip on the dagger-like shard. "...that was fun..."  
  
She struggled to keep the pain from her voice. "Are you alright, Will?"  
  
"Fine," he grunted, and the sound of boxes being shifted cam from somewhere on her right. "Just...surprised."  
  
Do it now! Get it over with! Using one side of Jack's coat, she wrapped it around the shard, giving herself a less dangerous handhold, and wrenched the thing out, moaning in agony. The sounds on her right ceased suddenly.  
  
"Are you alright, Ryenne?"  
  
"Fine, fine." She groaned, pressing a hand to the wound on her leg. "I've only had the wind knocked out of me, is all..." She did not need Will worrying about her; he needed to concentrate on the situation at hand, not any little cuts or scrapes she might obtain along the way.  
  
"You're sure?" Will's voice sounded skeptical.  
  
"I'm fine; stop worrying."  
  
She heard him sigh reluctantly and boxes began to scrape around once more. Squinting in the dim light, she surveyed their surroundings with a grimace. Crates and the straw packings were scattered everywhere, with the occasional scrap of unknown somethings. Will's rum bottle, no doubt the cause of her injury, was nowhere to be seen, and she sighed herself. A bit of rum would not have gone unappreciated at the moment; she needed the anesthetic.  
  
Bracing herself against the crate behind her, she used her good leg to push herself up, struggling only a moment before regaining...if not firm, then at least adequate footing. Her wounded leg trembled in protest, but held, however unsteadily, and she took a few shambling steps towards the noise.  
  
"Ungh..." Will groaned again, and Ryenne caught sight of his shadowy figure, hunched against a crate.  
  
Limping over to him, she bent as far as her leg would allow and rested a hand atop his head. His hair, damp and curling from sweat, brushed between her fingers, and she had to resist the urge to kiss it. He'd gotten her out of the wretched cell; he was a hero to her, no matter how drunk he was.  
  
"Are you sure you're not hurt, Will?"  
  
"I'm just fine, girl!" he snapped, pushing her hand away. "Stop asking and let me catch my breath."  
  
He's a mean drunk. Ryenne now resisted the even stronger urge to grab a fistful of that curly hair and tug. It was tempting.  
  
"Do you need any help?"  
  
"No. Just give me a moment!" He shifted his feet underneath him slowly. Too slowly.  
  
Letting out a low growl, Ryenne grabbed his hand and jerked him to his feet, sorely overestimating the strength in her own leg. With a cry of anguish, she felt her knees buckle beneath her and threw her arms around his shoulders, collapsing into his arms. For a moment, she just stayed there, too shocked and embarrassed to move. Will tensed.  
  
"I...uh...tripped." She explained awkwardly, using him to help herself regain her precarious balance. He caught her elbow, steadying her, and a concerned frown appeared on his face.  
  
"You are hurt!"  
  
"No," she replied quickly, letting go of him and wobbling back a few steps. "No, I'm fine. Only a little fatigued; I haven't eaten in a week, you know."  
  
He tried to grab her arm again, but she continued to stagger back for every step he took. "We could find some more of that rum." He suggested helpfully.  
  
"There's no time." Oh, god, let him have a plan! "What do we do, now?"  
  
"Well...I don't know, exactly." He shrugged. "It all seemed so simple at the moment..."  
  
"Dammit!" she growled, clenching her fists. "Dammit, Will! You don't have a plan!?"  
  
He shrugged again, looking sheepish. "Well, I..." Pausing a moment, Ryenne could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he formulated a rough plan. "Wait! Come on."  
  
Seizing her hand once more, he began to drag her in the direction of the stairs, looking furtive. While one half of her dismissed him as incredibly drunk, the other half wanted to put her trust in him, as she used to. And so, she found herself limping gingerly along behind him, throwing her lot in with his. He was going to get them out.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
The joy of finally reaching deMuerta dissipated nearly as quickly as it had come, and Jack was left gazing around at the surrounding cliffs with a sort of painful regret. There was still a chance to keep them from the treasure inside the island, but any plan he tried to make clung too much to hope and not at all to possibility. They had Ryenne, and as long as they had her, they had him as well.  
  
"Jesus, Sparrow! What the hell did you think you were..." Quinn's voice trailed off in disbelief as he stared at the rotting skeletons of wrecked ships that littered the water all around them. "Where in the bloody hell are we?"  
  
Jack sighed heavily; reluctantly. "Isla...deMuerta." The words dragged from him like stones. His secret; his island...no longer. Was that really it?  
  
"deMuerta..." Quinn repeated thoughtfully, throwing a sidelong glance at Tyrus, who frowned. "We'll see..."  
  
Scanning the bleak landscape once again, Jack felt a huge sense of loss welling up within him, but squashed it ruthlessly. Why was he letting himself become so defeated without even thinking? And then it came to him: he'd done his part. The bargain only detailed his bringing them to deMuerta, not guiding them around inside it. That meant...Ryenne...  
  
Quinn jerked his head at Tyrus, barking a command.  
  
"Get the girl."  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Ryenne peered out the porthole into the weak twilight created by the impending storm, estimating the distance it was down to the water below. It was a long drop. Irritably brushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes, she pulled her head back in and stared at Will in disbelief.  
  
"It'll never work!"  
  
"It will," he replied simply, reassuringly patting her shoulder. "Just don't think about it."  
  
"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "You're drunk!"  
  
"Am not." He protested indignantly. "I've never been drunk in my life!"  
  
Ryenne's eyebrows shot up in shock. "Really? Never?"  
  
"Never."  
  
"Hmm...well, I pity you, then."  
  
Will glowered. "Why?"  
  
She sighed. "It doesn't matter." He looked perplexed for a moment, then seemed to shake it off.  
  
"I suppose I should go first then..." He hesitated, and Ryenne suddenly heard the sound of heavy footsteps thumping their way down the stairs. Will's eyes went wide.  
  
"Go, Ryenne!"  
  
Shaking her head, she took a step back, away from the porthole. A desperate idea was forming in her mind, and in order for it to work, Will had to be gone. Acting quickly, she grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and – before he could protest – shoved him off the ship, into the water. Praying he wouldn't be impaled by the broken rigging of a sunken ship on the way down, she turned to see Tyrus staring at her; and fainted.  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
Clutching at air, Will didn't even think to cry out as he plummeted down, down, hitting the water with a painful splash. Choking and sputtering, he clawed his way back to the surface, wiping water out of his eyes and glaring back up at the porthole. Ryenne, when I bloody get my hands on you, I'll...  
  
Ryenne. Ducking his head back underwater, he hurriedly swam into the shadow of the ship, clinging to its side. Someone had been coming and she was still up there. Come on, Ryenne! Come on! Jump! What was she doing!? No sounds came from above, no hint of what was happening. Bloody woman...  
  
Throwing one last glance up at the porthole to be sure no one looked out, he began to swim his way to shore. What was he going to do, now?  
  
ï¶ï¶ï¶  
  
When Tyrus returned to the upper decks, a grim look upon his rough face, Jack's eyes darted immediately to the limp body cradled in the man's arms, his heart dropping into his boots. Ryenne. Forcing back the lump rising in his throat, he opened his mouth to speak, but Quinn got there first.  
  
"Is she...?"  
  
"No," Tyrus pitched his voice low, drawing his captain aside, but Jack still caught every single word he uttered. "I found her up by the portholes; getting ready to jump out, I'd wager. It sounded as if there was somebody else with her, but when I looked there was no one there. She fainted right out when she saw me."  
  
"But, how did she...?" Quinn gazed at Ryenne's unconscious body in puzzlement. In his own mind, Jack was thinking the same thing: how had she gotten out of the brig? ...Will...  
  
"I dunno, Captain. The brig was a disaster, though; crates and straw everywhere, and – "  
  
Quinn cut him off with a sharp gesture as he noticed Jack watching, and brushed a tender hand over Ryenne's brow. Too tender. "Take her to my cabin; I'll question her later – "  
  
"No!" Jack shouted, clenching his fists angrily. He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple. "I've fulfilled my part of the bargain, now it's time to fulfill yours."  
  
Tyrus looked ready to lunge at him, save for the body in his arms, but Quinn looked as calm as ever. Studying Jack coldly through half- narrowed eyes, he was silent for a moment, then crossed his arms over his chest, giving Tyrus a slight nod. The other man looked indignant, shaking his head haltingly, but moved at another cold look from his captain. Eyeing Jack with violent distaste, he bent and dropped Ryenne roughly at his feet, lip curling in disdain. Then, throwing one last resentful look at Quinn, he tramped away.  
  
"There. Now you have your prize, Sparrow." Quinn said coolly, tapping his foot impatiently on the deck. "It is time for you to show us the way into deMuerta."  
  
Jack ignored him for a moment, kneeling next to Ryenne's limp body. She looked gaunt and pale – half-starved, no doubt – but he could see the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, now. A fresh wound stained one leg of her trousers with dark blood, still sticky to the touch and less than an hour old. And deep. He grimaced.  
  
"Did you hear me, Sparrow? I said – "  
  
"That wasn't part of our bargain." Jack said simply, brushing Ryenne's hair gently out of her face. He could swear he had seen her stir.  
"Listen here, Sparrow – "Quinn began heatedly, before Jack cut him off.  
  
"You could just as easily kill me as let me live, I know." He looked up at the man towering over him, suddenly realizing how young the other captain was. No older than Will, in fact. "I've heard it before, and I know the truth of it." His voice took on a cold edge, and he no longer cared how much danger he was in. Only Ryenne mattered. "No, if you'll leave me alone for a moment, I need to make sure 'my prize' isn't dying."  
  
Quinn stood over him a minute longer, seemingly unsure of what his reaction should be, then gave a curt nod and stalked off after Tyrus, his black coat billowing in the wind. Jack snorted turning back to Ryenne. She was watching him.  
  
"Hello Jack." She said weakly, a small smile twitching at the corner of her lips. He smiled back.  
  
"Hello Ryenne." 


	38. Misunderstandings

The wind hummed in the rigging, straining the sails and whipping about the lone figure that stood stoically at the tiller of the Black Pearl. The storm would break soon; any fool could see that. But Gibbs was a fool who was out to save the life of another fool, and in order to do that, he needed to sail through the tempest, not around. Time was not currently his friend.  
  
In the quickening dark, he could barely make out the dark speck growing in the distance. He spun the tiller and the Pearl listed sharply to the left; if he was right, and that was DeMuerta, then they were approaching it from the wrong angle. They would need to sail around to any of the other coves than the one Jack had undoubtedly gone to; Gibbs thanked all the gods he had ever heard mention of for the island's strange shape. It curved in and out all along its exterior, offering many possible ports for sheltering. The reason one of them was so used above the others was because of its access to the tunnels that led into the interior of the island, and thus the treasure. A ship that sailed into one of the others by accident would find it inhospitable, but no different from any other forsaken isle. Thus, it was safe, for the most part, from discovery.  
  
Unfortunately, it was also a deathtrap for the unwary captain; if the ship wasn't dashed to pieces on the low rocks that humped near to the surface of the water or holed by the reefs, there was a good chance that it would not survive being rammed into the remains of all the other ships that hadn't made it. However, Gibbs was not unwary, and was far more experienced with such matters, having sailed with Jack on many a fine occasion.  
  
The young lad, Quinn, suddenly appeared by his side, shouting to make himself heard above the wind.  
  
"Mr. Barlowe wants to know if we're going to make it on time, Sir!"  
  
Gibbs nodded sharply, a smile beginning to grow on his weathered face.  
  
"Tell him...yes."  
  
And as Quinn staggered off, as the wind howled, as the deck pitched beneath their feet...the first raindrops fell.  
  
The water turned icy as Will swam into the mouth of the stream that flowed from the heart of the island, and he shuddered in his sodden clothing, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The cold seemed to clear his head somewhat, but a fuzzy mist still persisted in surrounding his thoughts. Anything felt like a valid possibility, and nothing was impossible; it couldn't be a good feeling, but he also couldn't shake it off. He was quite positive, however, that he was no longer drunk, shame flooding him as he realized that he had been. But, even if he were sober for the most part, the effects of the rum were definitely not completely gone. His limbs burned from exhaustion and his eyes stung in the salty water, but he continued to swim doggedly inward. Soon, it became shallow enough to stand, and then to wade, and he began making his way into the heavy darkness of the cave's tunnels.  
  
He would have given anything for so much as a single sputtering candle to ease the unbroken black; he was already soaked to the bone, freezing cold, and hungry, and the prospect of wandering the dark caves for hours certainly did not appeal to him. He had no choice, however, forced to trust only to memory to guide him to the heart of DeMuerta.  
  
At that moment, Jack and Ryenne were also navigating through DeMuerta, though their conditions were somewhat more comfortable. Nestled in the sternmost end of a narrow rowboat, Jack was carefully examining the wound on Ryenne's thigh, calloused fingers gently prodding the bloodied skin. He let out a low whistle.  
  
"It's deep. What'd you do to it?"  
  
Her voice was quiet, strained. "A piece of glass down in the brig; when the ship pitched, Will and I..." She trailed off, throwing a wary glance at the two men crouched at the bow. Neither Quinn nor Tyrus appeared to have heard, intent on guiding the little boat through the rough, narrow streambeds. The soft light from their lantern flickered coldly over the black surface of the water, casting shadows on the tunnel walls. From the corner of her eye, Ryenne could see the occasional glimmer of gold beneath those glassy ripples, but made no move to mention it. Hopeless thoughts swirled through her mind, plots and plans evaporating and making her feel like an empty shell. How are we ever going to be able to get out of this?  
  
Gasping as Jack's searching fingers prodded a tender spot on her leg, her attention snapped back to him, and she jerked away slightly, a low growl escaping her throat.   
  
"Ouch! Be careful, there!"  
  
Quinn glanced curiously at them over his shoulder for a brief moment, then rolled his eyes, and turned back to the task at hand. Ryenne's eyes carefully followed his moments, but Jack, who hadn't noticed, remained locked on her injury, his face grave.  
  
"It's very deep," he said solemnly.  
  
"Yes, you said that before," she replied snappishly, suddenly feeling extremely irritated. Why wasn't he telling her anything useful? "I'm sure I'll survive."  
  
"I'm surprised you could still walk; you've lost a lot of blood." She frowned at him, but he continued undaunted. "It needs to be bandaged."  
  
"In case you haven't noticed, I don't actually carry a supply of healing tools around with me."  
  
"Well, considering the trouble you consistently get yourself into, maybe you should," he grumbled, warming easily to her agitated, impatient mood. His hand moved as if to tear away a piece of his sleeve. "Give me a moment, and I'll just--"  
  
"Don't." She caught his wrist, shrugging off his coat easily and proffering her own coat sleeve. "Use mine."  
  
He looked skeptical. "I'd rather just--"  
  
"Look, it's my own bloody fault I got hurt in the first place. I won't have you sacrificing your clothing to bandage my cuts." She held out her arm, the white cotton sleeve hanging from it in a baggy sort of way. "Now, just take what you need."  
  
"It's my fault the ship lurched the way it did."  
  
"But it's my fault we're here in the first place." She grimaced at his hesitance. "You know, I'm losing more blood for every second you waste."  
  
Jack shook his head disapprovingly, but a small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. He reached for her sleeve, dagger suddenly appearing in hand. Ryenne's eyebrow's furrowed in confusion; how had he managed to keep that away from Quinn? But, whatever the reason, it didn't matter right now.  
  
Holding the fabric taut, Jack sliced a strip off of her sleeve, bracing himself with a hand on her shoulder as the boat rocked. Ryenne felt a chill go through her at his touch, which she stubbornly tried to ignore. But a cool breeze rushed suddenly through the tunnel, and she shivered, almost cutting herself on the blade of his knife. He sheathed it quickly, laying his coat across her shoulders and tugging it firmly around her. She smiled gratefully, feeling slightly awkward. From the look on his face, he was feeling the same.  
  
"Er...there you go," he mumbled, patting her arm and busying himself with bandaging her wound. Ryenne vaguely wondered if kissing him would be a bad idea...  
  
Kissing him? She must have lost more blood than she'd thought. But then again...  
  
But then again no. If there was ever to be any kissing of while she had been held captive in her own dreams and memories. And now there it was, calling to her in a way that could not be ignored. The image of a bed with tousled white sheets flashed before her mind's eye, the vision of her...and Jack. She leaned towards him, eyes fluttering closed, and...  
  
"Get up here, Sparrow!" Quinn shouted, glaring over his shoulder at them. Ryenne's moment of...whatever it was...shattered, and she pulled back, unable to stop her cheeks from coloring in embarrassment.  
  
Jack twitched, blinking, and she realized that he'd been leaning in, too; their faces had been mere inches apart. He also flushed slightly, eyes sliding past her to glare at Quinn, and he stood slowly, easing his way up to the bow. Tyrus eyed her suspiciously, fingering the blade of his knife longingly, and she frowned, pulling Jack's coat tighter around herself. There was a small sense of safety in being with Jack again, but there was no relieving the small pang of fear and discomfort that having Tyrus' eyes upon her caused; there never would be.  
  
"What is it?" Jack asked irritably, peering into the darkness ahead. "We haven't reached the split yet."  
  
Quinn's voice was dangerously soft. "Keep your hands off of her, Sparrow."  
  
Jack eyebrows furrowed, and he sat back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest. "What do you--"  
  
"I mean it. If I see--or hear--of anything, I will _personally_ kill the both of you."  
  
Ryenne had to bite her lip until it almost bled to keep from saying anything. Obviously the threat hadn't been meant for her to hear, but...What authority did Quinn assume he had over them, now? Jack had fulfilled the bargain, they were on his island...  
  
This was, of course, overlooking the fact that Quinn had fifty armed men at his bidding, and they only had Will.  
  
Where is Will? She thought curiously, looking around as though expecting him to pop suddenly out of a shadowy corner and start a charge. After all, he had been quite drunk the last time she had seen him; who knew how fast he had burned off the effects of his liquor.  
  
The sound of Jack's voice drew her eyes from the shadows and back to the men huddled at the bow.  
  
"What're you playing at?"  
  
She couldn't predict who would throw the first punch (or bring out the first knife), but she realized that it would soon come to blows, and if Jack fought...he would die. One man could not fight off fifty at one time, no matter how good with weapons he was. Not giving herself time to hesitate, she leaned forward and caught Jack's arm, pulling him back away from Quinn, whose eyes glittered maliciously.  
  
"I don't care if she is your little pet, Sparrow; I won't have that here--"  
  
"And I won't have her used for sport!" Jack spat, throwing a pointed glare in Tyrus' direction. "You can tell your...crew to keep their bloody hands off her!"  
  
Ryenne's face colored in embarrassment. "Jack! I can handle myself--"  
  
"No, you can't," he snapped, twisting the fabric he had cut from her sleeve (and never finished bandaging her cut with) in his hands. Her stomach gave a jolt of indignant anger, and she opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. "Hold still so I can bandage this up."  
  
He grabbed her leg roughly--more so than he'd intended, she thought--and she had to choke back a gasp of pain as he began to wind the cloth around her wound hastily. Forcing herself to look only at the floor of the boat, she kept perfectly still and silent; she could feel Quinn's black eyes piercing her like a dagger. His sudden interest in her was very unnerving, and while it scared her, at the same time it infuriated her. He hadn't cared when Tyrus had laid hands on her, had raped her. Now he was suddenly concerned about Jack touching her? Why?  
  
And Jack. He had made no move to deny Quinn's implications regarding himself and her. What did he think she had meant when she said she owed him? What did it all mean? And why did all of it seem to be happening so suddenly?  
  
Looking down at him as he finished bandaging her leg, she felt a sharp pang of disappointment; there was no fluttering in her stomach, no pounding of her heart. Only a simmering, building anger in her chest.   
  
He thought she was helpless.  
  
He must have spotted the expression on her face, because his eyebrows furrowed even deeper.   
  
"What is it, Ryenne, love?"  
  
"Don't call me that," she replied coldly, slouching away from him. He looked hurt, but made no move towards her.   
  
"Whatever you say."  
  
Things were not going well for Will. Granted, this could only be expected, seeing how he was wandering all alone in a pitch-black maze of tunnels, but even so, he was distinctly beginning to feel that fate was conspiring against him.   
  
It should not have been taking him this long to reach the central cavern he remembered so well from his previous adventure with Jack. It had only taken them about fifteen minutes by boat, then; he had expected it to be longer swimming and by foot, but he had begun to feel as if he had been wading for an hour, an impression amplified by the unyielding darkness around him.  
  
Sensing that he was rounding a sharp curve, he began to trail his fingers along the wall, following the course of rock and water. Suddenly, his right foot slipped into a small hole under the surface and he tripped, splashing loudly and cursing so fluently that he was momentarily and profoundly glad that Elizabeth was not there to hear him.  
  
Getting to his feet, he gingerly tested his ankle; thankfully, it was not twisted very badly, and he was able to put his weight on it without much pain. Leaning against the cool, damp rock, he paused and took a few deep, calming breaths to ease the frustration building inside him. Why wasn't he there yet? He let his head fall back against the hard stone, trying to picture the course of the tunnels in his mind. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the rum, or the cold, or his recent deprivation of sleep and food, but...he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember it at all. Sighing in defeat, he was about to close his eyes and rest for a while, when he suddenly heard a sound quite different from plunk of water droplets falling from the ceiling and the lapping of the shallow stream against the tunnel walls.   
  
The sound of voices.  
  
The sound of voices echoing behind him in the tunnel, accompanied by the splash of oars methodically entering and exiting the water.   
  
It was still a little ways off--sound carried easily, here--but was steadily drawing closer, and unless he wanted to give up any chance he might still have to help Carolynn and Jack, he had to find someplace to hide. Fast.   
  
Not stopping to think and barely even bothering to favor his right leg, Will set off again down the tunnel at twice the pace he had been going. He couldn't help that he was being loud; hopefully, his very existence remained a secret to Carolynn's captors, and they would not know who or what they were coming perilously close to discovering.  
  
About forty feet from where he had paused, he realized that the tunnel split into two branches, one leading to the left and the other the right. And suddenly, with a jolt, he remembered this place, remembered it so clearly it was as if it had scarce been a week since he'd been there. There still remained one problem, though: which had Jack chosen? Which led to the fabled treasure of DeMuerta?   
  
He stood still, deep in thought, doubt plaguing what little he now did remember. And the longer he stood there, the more convinced he became that it had been the right hand tunnel. It had to have been; going to the left just felt innately wrong.  
  
And he was rapidly running out of time.  
  
So, throwing caution and consideration to both the winds of chance and his fragmented memory, Will started into the gloom of the right hand tunnel just as the boat carrying Ryenne, Jack, Quinn, and Tyrus rounded the bend.  
  
Jack was feeling a number of things at the moment, irritation currently being the most common denominator. He was irritated with Ryenne, yes; the girl was having another of her odd, random mood swings, apparently, and was refusing to speak to him. He was irritated with the whole situation they were in, and especially the perpetrators of said situation (their captors). But primarily, he was irritated with himself for allowing all of it to happen in the first place. After all, wasn't he Captain Jack Sparrow, Scourge and Infamous Scallywag of the Seven Seas?  
  
Apparently not, or at least, not anymore. He was a failure, an abject wretch of a man who had been embarrassingly outsmarted and was currently being pushed very near to his breaking point.  
  
And not only that, but he was a failure and abject wretch who also happened to be in love with the other wretch who wasn't speaking to him and most likely felt nothing for him even remotely along the lines of love, if the way she kept shooting quick glares in his direction was any indicator.  
  
He wondered what would happen when his temper finally snapped.   
  
As he sat mulling over this, Ryenne suddenly grabbed his arm. All traces of her anger had disappeared, replaced by a wild sort of hope that shone in her eyes and stained her cheeks with pink.  
  
"Listen!" She whispered, quietly enough so that Quinn and Tyrus could not hear her. Startled, he did--and heard the distinct sound of splashing ahead of them in the tunnel. Within the small sphere of the light the lanterns produced, there was nothing visible, but...  
  
"Will?" He asked quietly, and she nodded.  
  
"It must be. Jack, we have to do something--they can't see him! Isn't there a fork in the tunnel somewhere ahead?"  
  
"Yes..." He said slowly. "It should be coming up any minute, now."  
  
She glanced ahead, then turned back to him, chewing her lip.   
  
"Where does the other one lead?"  
  
Jack's memory of the island's underground network of tunnels was keen, and he answered promptly.  
  
"The left leads to the cavern, and the right links up with another tunnel that ends in one of the outside coves."  
  
In the bow of the boat, Quinn had been listening to the splashing as it echoed off of the walls. Eyes dark, he turned to Jack.  
  
"Sparrow! What is that?"  
  
"I've not the faintest idea," Jack lied glibly, keeping his face smooth. Quinn looked suspicious, but merely barked an order for Tyrus, who had taken over all of the rowing, to speed up as they turned the corner. The pale glow from the torches illuminated the scene before them: the tunnel wider, the ceiling higher, and ahead...the fork, twin mouths of darkness that seemed like they would swallow forever whoever entered.  
  
And no Will, who had presumably already entered the tunnel.  
  
Ryenne was anxiously trying to peer into the left hand branch, her hand still gripping Jack's arm almost painfully.  
  
"Which way?" Quinn asked.  
  
"Tell him the wrong one," Ryenne breathed quietly. "Jack, you have to."  
  
He hesitated long enough for Quinn's eyes to narrow, but with good reason. Studying the line of ripples in the water as they had rounded the bend, Jack had seen that they were issuing from the right tunnel mouth.   
  
Will, if it had been him, had gone down the wrong tunnel.  
  
"Don't even think of lying to me, Sparrow..."  
  
But there was no need for him to.   
  
"Left," he pronounced clearly, and Ryenne drew quickly away from him as if he had turned into some kind of viper. He gazed at her helplessly, willing her to understand.   
  
I'll explain later, he mouthed, but she shook her head slowly and he saw her lips form the word traitor.  
  
Teeth clenched, he growled low in his throat and covered his face with his hands. Did she really trust him so little? How could she honestly believe that he would betray Will, who was practically a brother to him, so easily? And furthermore, when he was the one all their hopes were resting upon? Why couldn't she see that he had done what did for a reason?   
  
It made no sense.  
  
But then again, not a whole lot made sense recently.  
  
Fighting the urge to throttle Ryenne and her stupid habit of leaping to incorrect conclusions, Jack sat back and waited for them to reach the cavern.  
  
Gibbs stood by the railing of the Pearl, scanning the rocky cliffs in front of him for some sign of the exit of the sister tunnel leading out of the interior cavern, the second and only other one on the outside of the island. The men were all making the ship ready for port, even if there wasn't much of one here: the sails had been furled to protect them from the winds that howled through the craigs, and the anchor had been sunk, with a few ropes having been thrown out to two crewmembers standing on the narrow shore so that they could be tied off and the Pearl made completely secure.  
  
The rain was lashing down thick and heavy, and visibility was beyond poor; they had been lucky in their timing, or else it was very possible that they never would have made it into the narrow entrance of the cove in one piece.   
  
Peering and squinting, Gibbs finally spotted the telltale shadow of a cleft in the rock that belied the presence of the tunnel. He was about to call the two men on shore back to the ship so they could begin to decide what the plan of action would be, when suddenly a figure appeared in the cave mouth, stumbling out into the rain and blinking confusedly as he noticed the presence of the Black Pearl.  
  
The man was nearly unrecognizable; he didn't look like he had shaved, slept, or eaten in nearly a week. However, this didn't stop Gibbs from shouting at the men on shore, a burly Scot and smaller Englishman, to help him as the man suddenly collapsed onto a jutting outcrop of seaweed-covererd rock.  
  
And as they carried him on board, he opened his eyes weakly and attempted to stand, looking thankfully at Gibbs as he helped him upright.  
  
"Hullo, Gibbs," he said, voice raspy.  
  
It was Will.  
  



	39. Dead

DISCLAIMER: We _still_ don't own PotC.

An overwhelmingly numb feeling swept through Jack as he stepped out of the narrow rowboat and into icy, knee-deep water, but it wasn't the cold that caused it. The numbness seemed to seep from his very bones as his eyes passed over the veritable mountains of treasure heaped on the sandy floor that gleamed in the flickering torchlight, occasionally illuminated by a brilliant flash of lightning from the storm raging outside. Most of the enormous cave was hidden in impenetrable darkness, but it was still quite impressive all the same. And it was all he owned.

It burned deep within him – seethed – that he was going to have to watch it all fall into the hands of a spiteful young man who would do anything in his power to have his way…and here he was, powerless to do anything about it.

There was nothing he _could_ do. Jack had given his word in accord, and had received what he had bargained for.

_What he had _bargained_ for. _It was strange to think that he'd bargained everything to save Ryenne's life, and now she wouldn't even speak to him, all because of some stupid misunderstanding.

It was not as though he could even explain it to her at the moment, though she stood a mere few feet away; not when Tyrus was lurking threateningly the same short distance away. He wouldn't have risked it, even if he had been able to get her attention.

Her eyes were darting about among the glittering hills, vainly searching for any sign of Will nearby, and her breathing was harsh and frantic. Jack gritted his teeth furiously. She continued to think that he would betray Will – his brother, his comrade – so lightly, when she was likely to do it herself, however unintentionally. After all, if her behavior kept up Quinn was bound to become suspicious, and the man wasn't stupid. He was vengeful to a fault, perhaps, but certainly not as dull-witted as Ryenne seemed to think.

When she noticed him watching her, though, her eyes grew cold and angry, and she looked away hurriedly. Jack fumed. One would have thought that she would, at least, be willing to treat him with some gratitude, especially after he'd saved her life -- not for the first time, either. But no; she insisted on carrying on with her haughty – and unprovoked – silence. It was almost more than a man could bear.

He was just about to voice his opinions on this, when, in the process of staring resolutely down at her hands, Ryenne suddenly went horribly rigid, her eyes growing considerably wider. Snapping her head up to gaze at him apprehensively, she turned several shades paler – in fear.

_The chest! _She mouthed hysterically, mutely holding up her hand to show him the thin, white scar that slashed diagonally across her palm. Jack's heart froze him where he stood.

The chest.

"Well, well, Sparrow," Quinn's voice was reverently soft as he fastidiously inspected a silver chalice in the torchlight. "I must admit: I'm impressed. And please, of course, that you have cooperated so well…"

Jack tried to keep the panic off his face. _What have you done, you idiot!?_

"…Unfortunately, I can't have you wandering about, interfering with the loading of _my_ gold." He shrugged, a mockingly apologetic smile upon his dark face. "So sorry, Sparrow."

"Jack! Look out!"

But Ryenne's scream came a moment too late. Pain exploded on the side of Jack's head, and as his vision clouded over, he became aware that he had, once more, been easily tricked.

Then all went dark.

Ryenne watched in horror as Jack went suddenly limp, tumbling forward into the shallow water with a loud splash, and she jumped back anxiously as Tyrus shifted the rowboat's short oar to his other hand, chuckling evilly. But he made no move towards her, and so, all of her anger at Jack changing to worry, she collapsed to her knees beside Jack, carefully rolling him onto his back and cradling his head on her legs. Tyrus began to snicker quietly, but she ignored him, bending closer to Jack and brushing a damp lock of hair out of his face.

He seemed mostly unhurt, save for the fact that he was unconscious. He was breathing, at least, and there was no blood on him, excepting the scant traces of hers that was left on his shirtsleeves. But still, hurt or not, it wouldn't be an easy task to carry him to shore all alone – and especially not with her newly-wounded thigh.

Glancing angrily up at Quinn, who was watching her with a bemused sort of interest, she shrugged off Jack's coat, bundling it up to use as a cushion under his head. Quinn stopped her with a sharp gesture of his hand.

"Leave him, Caelar. He's fine…for the moment." He ordered quietly, airily tossing aside the silver chalice in his hands like a piece of rubbish. She glared at him.

"What do you mean by that?"

He shrugged, bending to pick up a dagger encrusted with sapphires. "Well, there's really no point in me keeping him around if he's of no use to me."

"You talk as if he belongs to you." She growled, placing a hand protectively on Jack's chest. Quinn looked thoughtful, a frightening sort of smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Hmm…" His smile widened. "Well, if _he_ belongs to _me_, and _you're_ his little _pet_, then technically…_you_ belong to _me_, as well." He tossed the dagger aside, picking up an emerald the size of his palm. "Nice to have that settled, isn't it?" He turned to address Tyrus. "Now, I want you to –"

"He doesn't belong to you, Quinn," Ryenne said sharply. "And neither do I."

He paused, turning back to her with one eyebrow arched quizzically. His eyes scornfully raked over the ragged figure she presented. "Oh, really? Well, we'll see about _that_."

Tyrus descended on her before she could say another word, but for once it wasn't her that he slung over his shoulder; it was Jack.

For a moment, she was too shocked by the sight of Jack thrown casually over Tyrus's shoulders, as limp as a rag doll, to say or do anything. But as Tyrus began to stride away through the water, she remembered herself again.

"Where are you taking him!?" she demanded, charging – as best she could – after Tyrus. Unfortunately, as the water came up to her mid-thighs, her best wasn't very good at all.

"It's none of your concern," Quinn replied coolly, making a vague sweep of his hand at Tyrus, who disappeared into the black gloom of the cavern.

"Of _course_ it's my concern! I –"

"You _what_?"

Ryenne stopped short, considering her answer. "I…"

"Well?"

"I…I have _every_ right to know where he's going!" Was that _really_ what she'd been about to say? She wasn't quite sure.

He gave her a wry smile. "I'm sure Sparrow gave you a large number of liberties, as his pet, but you belong to _me_ now, so –"

"I will _never_ belong to you!"

"— So you will do as I tell you!" he growled, throwing down the latest piece of treasure he'd been examining, in his fury. "Come out of that water!"

"No."

"_Do as I say!_"

"No!"

"Ryenne, you _will_ come out of there, if I have to carry you out myself!"

She crossed her arms obstinately over her chest in reply, fixing him with a level glare. In hindsight, she would realize it probably wasn't the best choice she could have made, but by the time that insight sunk in, it was far too late. Taking off his jacket and laying it meticulously atop a rock, he fixed her with a meaningful look and slowly began to roll up his sleeves. Ryenne snorted.

"Do you really think you can frighten me _that_ easily?"

He didn't say anything, but waded into the water, stopping a couple feet in front of her and mirroring her stubborn stance.

"What's it going to be, Ryenne?"

"I thought I'd made it quite obvious by now," she said disdainfully, tugging absently at what was left of the sleeve Jack had cut to bandage her wound. "I'm not coming out."

He shrugged. "Well, since we obviously can't have it your way, we'll just have to have it _my_ way," he said smugly, and, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist, threw her over his shoulder.

Shock hit her like a tidal wave – not because she'd _doubted_ he…well, she never expected him to carry out his threat. After all, Tyrus was usually the one to rudely haul her around; never Quinn. It wasn't as though she liked it any better, however.

Shouting and trying ineffectively to wriggle out of his iron grip, she found it made little difference what she did, as Quinn kept on with his steady, sauntering pace toward the rocky shore. He didn't put her down, like she thought he would, when they reached it, but continued on through the maze of gold mountains, almost seeming to know where he was going.

It soon became apparent that he did not, however, when Ryenne noticed that they had passed the same gilded ebony chest for the third time, although it was really quite difficult to tell if it _was_ the same one, given her semi-upside-down point of view. She stifled a snigger of derision.

He snorted. "You're hardly in any position to be mocking _me_, Caelar."

"And why do you say that? You're the one who's been carrying me around for near twenty minutes."

He dropped her like a rock, letting her land hard on her side near his feet. Groaning in pain and gasping for breath, she almost didn't hear the scraping of his dagger leaving the sheath. Almost.

"What're you doing?"

He seized her arm roughly, jerking her into a sitting position.

"Seeing as you were so kind as to let Sparrow borrow your sleeve, you won't mind me taking the other." Using his dagger to speed the process, he tore her sleeve at the shoulder, ripping it off completely, and began to slice it into two long strips. Ryenne was so curious as to what he was doing that she didn't even think to run away until it was too late.

He managed to catch her left wrist in a steel grip before she realized what the cloth was for.

"Let me go!" she screamed, swinging her free arm at him. "I won't be kept tethered like some sort of animal!"

He caught her hand inches from his face, twisting it painfully up behind her back. She couldn't hold back a gasp.

"Then stop acting like one," he hissed, bringing her other arm behind her back as well. She could feel the cloth already cutting into her tender wrists as he bound them tight, knocking the fabric as securely as possible, and tried not to fight; it would only hurt her more. It was too much for her, though, when he tried to put the other strip over her mouth.

"_No!"_

She tore away in one sharp movement, tumbling away from him and into a glittering heap of coins with enough force to generate several new bruises. Quinn seemed unfazed, straightening to advance on her again. She made a weak attempt to scramble to her feet, but was quite unsuccessful. His eyes were hard.

"If I have to knock you unconscious to do this, Ryenne, I will," he threatened, a grim smile upon his face. "And believe me, you wouldn't be comfortable when you woke up…if you woke at all."

Under Gibbs' careful ministrations, Will was soon fed, shaved, and rested, though still abysmally thin. Now both men sat in Jack's cabin, planning their next move and getting generally caught up on events.

"So basically what you're telling me is that Jack was outsmarted, outwitted, and outdone by _one_ little whelp of a boy?"

Will grimaced slightly, remembering Quinn and his burly henchman, Tyrus. He fiddled with a cup of water on the tabletop.

"Maybe not _little_," he said, a tad reproachfully. Quinn was approximately his own age, a bit too old to be considered a whelp, he thought. "But yes, that's about it," he added quickly at the look on Gibbs' face.

The other man sat back with a sigh. "And the girl is at the center of all this, isn't she?" he said resignedly. "Jack did it all for her."

"He _does_ love her," said Will, before he could stop himself. Gibbs looked up, eyes wide for a moment, then sighed again.

"He told you this himself, did he?"

Will nodded slightly, wishing he hadn't spoken.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised; he's helped her out of every scrape she's gotten into ever since she came aboard, and that's saying something." Gibbs shook his head slowly. "No, I shouldn't be surprised at all."

They were quiet for a moment as Gibbs let this new information sink in. Then…

"What are we going to do, though?"

Will hesitated for a moment. "I think…I think I might have a plan."

Ryenne tried to resign herself to watching the ground pass under Quinn's feet as he ambled along (after all, it _was_ better than consenting to lose consciousness altogether), but a sick feeling filled her stomach with every step he took. Jack had been taken off, Will was missing…and here she was again, bound and helpless, as she seemed to be quite often, of late.

The cloth in her mouth seemed to have a hint of some metallic, bloody taste to it, but whether it was from old blood or new, she did not know. She was certain that her hands were bleeding anew behind her, however; she could feel the sticky warmth of it soaking through her thin shirt. She decided that there was no use in making condition known to Quinn, no matter how bad off she was; he would only take comfort from her being in pain – that was, if he acknowledged the complaint at all. She thought she might take a more congenial approach to things.

"Wherrm arwm ee guinnm?" she demanded eloquently, trying to dig her knee into his stomach. He snorted, a habit of his that was becoming increasingly annoying.

"Honestly, Ryenne, why do you even bother? I _did_ put that gag on you for a _reason_, you know." He caught hold of her ankle, twisting it violently. "Now stop kicking me; it will only slow us down."

"Phuht ee duhnm, thehnm!"

"What makes you think I would even _consider_ putting you down? You've caused me enough trouble already without scampering off to the far corners of this island." He replied contemptuously. "Be quiet, or I'll – Ah! There we are!"

Curious, Ryenne tried to crane her neck around to see where they were going, but in her frenzied attempts, all she managed to do was slam her nose into the small of Quinn's back, causing him to stumble slightly. Cursing explosively, she unconsciously tried to bring a hand up to rub her aching face, but instead ended up simply wrenching the bonds further into her wrists. She cursed again.

"The little wench gave you a bit of trouble, did she, sir?"

She cringed at the sound of Tyrus's voice, but continued on with her hopeless attempts to see over Quinn's shoulders. He shook her roughly.

"Stop wriggling, girl." He turned to Tyrus. "Does she ever _not_ cause trouble?"

Tyrus laughed nastily, and Ryenne felt Quinn's muscles shift underneath her. Sucking in a sharp breath, she prepared herself for the impact of being thrown to the ground. Nothing happened.

"What about Sparrow?" Quinn's voice sounded guarded. "Did you…?"

"Taken care of; no need to worry about _him_ anymore."

Ryenne's mind rushed to comprehend what she was hearing. _Taken care of?_ But that must have meant that Jack was…

"_No!"_ she shrieked, fighting ruthlessly to remove herself from Quinn's grasp. To her great surprise, he let go…and she hit the ground with paralyzing force; totally unprepared for it. Red lights flashed in front of her eyes as she struggled to breathe again; her arms felt broken beneath her. But it was all muted by a harsh realization.

Jack was dead.

She moaned in anguish.

"Shut up, girl." Quinn hissed angrily, nudging her with his boot. "_You've_ got nothing to worry about, yet. I might actually decide to keep you."

Unable to stop the violent sobs from wracking her body, Ryenne rolled slowly onto her side, her head pounding – filling with pictures of his face, the sound of his voice…the feel of his touch. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be; she was jumping to conclusions. It wasn't right; they were supposed to get out. Will was going to help them get out… And now…

"Jack…" she sobbed past her gag, voice cracking pathetically. "Jack…_no_…"

Somewhere above her, Quinn snorted derisively. "Perhaps we had better get a fire going." Ryenne ignored the obvious scorn in his tone, pulling her knees into her chest for comfort. A painful sort of icy feeling was creeping through her veins.

Jack was dead.


	40. The Game

DISCLAIMER: We don't own PotC. Think we've made that point quite clear by now.

Quinn sat alone by the fire, peering through its dancing flames at the huddled figure lying just outside their warm circle of light with a small smile upon his face. Ryenne had cried herself to sleep; over Sparrow, no doubt. His smile faded somewhat as his next realization sunk in, however.

She loved him. Sparrow, that was.

It wasn't as though he hadn't already suspected this, but now all his previous suspicions seemed to be proven quite correct – a fact that almost disappointed him.

Not almost. He _was_ disappointed. Ryenne had gone off and fallen in love with Jack Sparrow. It was utterly feminine of her. Completely and totally feminine. It was disgusting.

He grimaced down at the diamond ring he was weighing in the palm of his hand. Why _Sparrow_, anyway? What was so _wonderful_ about Sparrow that made Ryenne fall in love with him in the first place? It obviously wasn't because he was clever, or anything of _that_ sort. From the rumors he'd heard in Tortuga, Ryenne had met Jack in a tavern shortly after she'd been mutinied from the Gryphon. Lee's Tavern, apparently. And there had been certain goings-on that day that the bartender found particularly amusing…

Quinn's upper lip curled into a sneer as he cut the thought short. Honestly, did Sparrow have no _shame_? And _Ryenne_? He snorted.

"Something funny, Cap'n?" He looked up at Tyrus, the remaining shreds of disgust on his face melting into an emotionless mask.

"How is he?"

"Still unconscious," Tyrus chuckled. "But I made sure he'll keep quiet when he wakes up."

Quinn nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to Ryenne's shadowy outline. "She thinks he's dead, you know." He stated simply, gesturing in the girl's direction. Tyrus shifted uncomfortably.

"And that's a _good_ thing, right?"

"Of course it is. It makes her easier to handle."

"How's that?"

Quinn's smiled returned; this time with a malicious edge to it. "She thinks she has no one left to rely on, and so our threats will affect her more. She'll be more…submissive. It's quite simple, really."

Tyrus's only reply was a mischievous grin.

"We've got to give it a little time, though." He said quietly, standing in one smooth gesture. "I think she's near reached her breaking point, and we don't want her to get too hysterical. Things like that get messy." He nodded once again, giving Ryenne one final glance. "But we'll see. Come on, let's go see about loading some of this."

Ryenne felt cold inside, so frozen she could hardly find the will to keep breathing. How could Jack be dead? How could it have been such simple business for them to kill him? Why did she hurt so much inside? A thousand questions spun through her head, each one making her feel hollower than the last. She felt as though she'd never see the sun shine again, never feel content, never be able to stop crying. But she'd cried all the tears she had. There was nothing left for her to do, so there she lay, silent and exhausted, feeling the unwanted warmth of Quinn's fire on her back. She didn't deserve to feel warm ever again. Not while Jack was so cold.

The sound of Quinn's voice brought her a short way out of her despondent trance, and she listened, unsure of what else she _could_ do. But as soon as the words reached her ears, something inside her was woken, and she became alert.

_"How is he?"_

_ "Still unconscious," A laugh. "And I made sure…"_

She held her breath, not want to miss a single word they said.

_"She thinks he's dead, you know."_

_ "And that's a _good_ thing, right?"_

Her heart skipped a beat, and she let her breath out in a quiet rush of surprise. Jack wasn't dead? _Jack wasn't dead! _Tears of joy pricked at her sore, tired eyes, and she let them roll slowly down her cheeks. Not dead!

_"…makes her easier to handle…"_

She paused, listening attentively once more. Tyrus's response was too quick for her too catch, but Quinn's next words came clear enough, burning a hole of anger in her mind.

_"She thinks she has no one left to rely on, and so our threats will affect her more. She'll be more…submissive. It's quite simple, really…" _

Ryenne had to hold herself back, else she would have charged over there that very second, and…and…been beaten senseless, most likely. Like it or not, she was not the physical match of either of them, and especially not the both of them put together. She was helpless, as usual. She wanted to scream.

_"…but we'll see. Come on, let's go see about…"_

There was the gentle scraping of feet as they walked away, then silence. She waited a moment longer, listening intently, then rolled to her other side and glanced around hastily. There was no one there, only the gently crackling fire. Heaving a sigh of relief, she struggled into a sitting position, wincing as the bonds dug into her wrists, and shuffled toward the glowing circle of light and warmth.

First, she needed a plan. She couldn't just sit around and let Jack and Will handle things any longer; she had to do _something_. But what?

The only thing really clear to her right then was that there wasn't much she could do trussed up like a lamb for the slaughter. Casting about frantically, she began searching for something with which to cut her bonds before her captors returned.

Will was not particularly pleased at the prospect of going back into the maze of tunnels, but as he saw it, the sooner Jack and Caroline were rescued, the sooner they could leave deMuerta and go back to Port Royale – home. He knew it was rather selfish of him; after all, Jack was one of his better friends, almost a brother, despite the rarity of his visits. But Elizabeth was with child, and his need to be with her was rather pressing. He would do his duty here, and then go with all haste back to Royale.

When he was a ways into the tunnel, Will held up the shuttered lantern Gibbs had given him, taking a small piece of white chalk out of his pocket. This had been Gibbs' idea, for him to mark the walls of the tunnel as he went so that the crew of the Pearl would be able to follow easily in their small groups of four or five men each, without needing a guide. It was simple enough, so long as Will didn't get lost himself, and made it possible to be stealthier in carrying out the plan than one large group would be.

The plan of action they'd made was not a very complicated plan in most aspects, but neither was it a very good plan; at least not in Will's opinion. It was too like many plans Jack had made in past situations: not at all foolproof, with so many things that could go horribly wrong…possibly even _fatally_ wrong. But it was the only plan they had, so the only things left for him to do were hope and carry on as planned.

Shaking his head resignedly, Will drew a small, but plainly visible, white arrow on the slick stone wall of the tunnel and did just that: hoped all would go as planned, and continued on his way.

A small bejeweled dagger was Ryenne's only available aid for escape from her bonds, which was unfortunate, because it was quite dull. But, admittedly, it _did_ have a blade, so it would have to suffice, despite its low quality. It had taken her several painfully tedious minutes of scuffling about in miniature piles of gold and the like with her feet before she'd found it, and several more to get it into her hands, which were still bound tight behind her back. She didn't relish the thought of repeating all of this simply to find a sharper one. No, this dagger was as good as any.

Sawing through her bonds was a painstaking process, for, while the blade was dull, it had already bitten into the flesh of her hands many times, and she was positive she would have numerous cuts to show for it.

"Bloody _hell_!" she hissed under her breath as it pierced her thumb for what seemed like the hundredth time, and brought her hand to her mouth, sucking on the new wound like a little child. It took her a moment to realize that, in her current state, she shouldn't have been able to do this. A slow grin crept onto her face.

Fumbling with the knot that still held the gag in her mouth, she had to contain a laugh, and her fingers became clumsy and fluttering in her stat of victorious euphoria, making the task drag longer. When she finally managed to jerk it off, though, she was extremely quick to gasp in a few deep breaths of fresh air and struggle to her feet. A short victory waltz seemed in order, after all.

_Now I need a plan…_her heart sunk into the pit of her stomach as the thought hit her; she'd never been especially good at making plans…or keeping to them. It was a bit of a roadblock, she had to admit, but she couldn't let it stop her. She wouldn't wait for Jack and Will to solve everything; she _had_ to do something. It seemed right to list her assets first; maybe she had something she could work with.

There was Will, of course, who was currently missing in action. But she couldn't waste precious time searching him out at the moment, not when Jack's life hung so precariously in the balance. He would find her when the time was right, she hoped.

Then she had Jack, still unconscious by Tyrus's account, and unconscious he wouldn't do her much good at all. And besides, who knew what kind of condition he was in now? _He may not be dead, but he could be…_she didn't want to think past that. He wouldn't be able to help her, and that was all there was to it.

That left her with…nobody, save for herself. Well, _she_ wasn't useless, and she was going to prove it to herself, and everyone else, by having a plan…just as soon as she thought one up…

She could bargain. If there was one thing she was good at…it _definitely_ wasn't bargaining, but if she found some sort of leverage, she might be able to use it to scrape by. Unfortunately, Quinn had been quite immune to any sort of pleading or negotiating she had tried so far. In any case, she had nothing he would deem worthy of exchanging Jack's life for, anyway; nor even her own life. She had absolutely nothing.

As soon as that thought passed through her mind, another struck, knocking the wind from her lungs in a rush of shock.

_I thought you loved me, Ryenne…_

She stiffened with the dread of what she now knew she had to do as she realized that she _did_ have leverage to bargain with: _herself_.

There was no sign of Jack anywhere.

Will felt as though he were seconds away from losing control and becoming frantic, but he managed to keep his feelings leashed, somehow, coolly inspecting the scene that lay before him. A small fire crackled noisily in the little valley created by twin heaps of gold and cast dancing shadows on the stone walls; it was obviously meant to be a discreet sort of fire, but only succeeded in being anything but. It was practically a guiding beacon in the infinite pitch-blackness of deMuerta's central cavern, and there, crouched in the glowing circle of firelight, was Quinn.

Will had never actually seen the m an before, and only had Caro – _Ryenne's_ rambling, mostly-incoherent descriptions of him to go by, but he knew him on sight. There was an unmistakable air of darkness about him, a murky sort of aura that was so stifling Will had to fight to keep from gagging on the sheer horribleness of it. Quinn had no distinguishing characteristics, save for eyes as black as pools of ink, but Will knew he would never forget that sneering face. He seemed an average man: tall, but not ungainly, lean, but not scrawny. His hair was a tangled mop of dark curls, and his smooth face was one women would undoubtedly find handsome, but Will could not help feeling that there was something horribly _wrong_ about him…

And there was. He was holding both Jack and Car – _Ryenne_ captive, for one. If that wasn't enough reason, the muscular brute standing next to him would certainly count for something; Tyrus didn't look like a bag of laughs, either.

From what Will could hear (or more accurately: _couldn't_ hear) they were having a hushed conversation about…well…_something_. He couldn't quite be sure of what, exactly, they were saying, but he could guess easily enough by the furtive glances they kept throwing at a small figure huddled nearby; Ca…_Ryenne_.

He didn't know whether he should be confused or angry first. There was Ryenne, being the poor helpless creature she so often seemed to be, but where was Jack? Surely they wouldn't have killed him already…or would they have? It didn't quite seem right; something in Will told him that Jack was still alive out there somewhere…and he needed to be found.

Coming to a quick – almost hasty – decision, Will gave Ryenne's huddled figure a sympathetic glance and crept off into the darkness. He felt somewhat guilty about just leaving her there when she looked so completely defenseless, and because she was the reason they were on this accursed isle in the first place, but there was really nothing he could do for her in a situation like this. He needed to find Jack first. After all, what would C…_Ryenne_ be without Jack?

Pain washed over Jack in burning waves as he regained consciousness, and he groaned, feeling every aching muscle in his body tense. A stabbing sort of pain ran down the length of his arms, which were bound fast at the wrists, and there was a pounding ache in his temples; he felt as though he were slowly making his way toward suffocation. The gag in his mouth had the sickening metallic tang of sweat mixed with blood to it, and the blindfold pressed ruthlessly into his eyes, creating white star-like lights. He sighed to the best of his ability.

_So, this is how Ryenne feels…_he shifted uncomfortably in his bonds. The new position caused something hard and roughly square-shaped to dig into his back. _No wonder she tried to kill herself._

He tried to banish the thought, a flood of guilt rushing through him. He wasn't exactly sure why he should feel guilty, but it seemed like such a horrible thing for him to have thought. Ryenne wouldn't have liked it, that was for certain.

_Letting Ryenne control your thoughts, now?_

That one was shoved away quickly, as well. Being gagged, bound, and blindfolded could bring out the worst in a person. Or he assumed as much, based on the majority of people he'd crossed paths with who were gagged, blindfolded, and –

Oh, what was he rambling about now? What did it matter if he was angry? He was probably about to die anyway, so what difference did it make what mood he was in when he did? He could be positively bursting with good cheer and it wouldn't have helped his situation in the least…except that that would mean that he was probably stark raving mad, and probably wouldn't mind the prospect of impending doom quite so much.

_I'm _already_ stark raving mad, _he thought miserably. _Otherwise I wouldn't have gotten myself into this mess in the first place. I would be safe in the Orient right now, if I had just…why did I go into Lee's that day?_

He remembered why.

The _Pearl_ had been three months out to sea, with hardly any takings at all, as it seemed that more and more of the royal navy's ships were out patrolling the water – even escorting specific merchant vessels (Jack thought he knew a certain naval officer who could have been to thank for this), and he'd needed a release for his building stress. Where better to lose some of his tension than an old friend's tavern, where the rum was cheap and the girls were friendly? After all, there was always room number 13…

He couldn't remember exactly what he'd been thinking when he first saw Ryenne, or if he'd even been thinking at all. He _did_ recall being slightly curious as to why she'd been soaking wet while still fully clothed, but the liquor had nullified such feelings. It seemed more important, at the time, for him to notice that her thin cotton shirt had been plastered to her body with the dampness, but such were the thoughts of a man who had consumed more alcohol than is good for _five_ men. Jack thought he could feel his ears getting hot as his memory summoned up pictures. He coughed.

The memory of finding Ryenne asleep in his cabin that first night was easily called up into his mind. The rage he'd felt at finding the very same girl who'd made a fool of him only an hour or so before lounging about on his ship had made him act rashly. He'd tried to prove that he didn't think of her as a threat to his superiority, and botched it up by leaving her with the one tool she needed to gain her freedom and more: the compass.

He supposed that somehow, somewhere deep within his subconscious, he'd done it purposely; had _wanted_ her to find out about deMuerta – to know more about him. Maybe he'd known, or at least suspected, that she was _the_ _one_ all along. But then again, maybe not. After all, he still had no idea how she felt about him…well, he had ideas about how she felt, but…

"Jack?"

At the sound of his name, he was jerked rather painfully out of his reverie by a jolt of shock and the feel of the gag being tugged hastily out of his mouth. Will? He sucked in a few breaths of the chilly air before answering.

"Jack, can you hear me?" Will shook his shoulders roughly, his voice near-frantic.

"Of course I can hear you – you're talking right in my ear!"

Will laughed weakly, sounding relieved. "It's good to see you, too."

"Too? You're talking as though I can see _you_, which is confusing because I _can't_."

"Oh…sorry about that…" There was a moment of silence as the other man fumbled with the knotted fabric, and then the blindfold fell away, leaving Jack blinking against the…darkness? He'd somehow expected to be greeted by bright light, but what he found was little better than the pitch-blackness of before. A dim glow came from a small shuttered lantern near Will's feet, but that was all.

"It's so…you look terrible." Jack interrupted himself, looking up at Will. His friend had changed drastically since he'd last seen him; a week trapped in the bowels of the _Gryphon_ had done its damage. His face was gaunt and pale, dark circles haunting his eyes, and his hair hung in damp tendrils around it. Jack was vaguely reminded of some half-drowned furry creature whose name slipped his mind at the moment, but he decided it would be best not to mention this.

"You don't look so wonderful yourself." A hiss of steel on leather as Will unsheathed his dagger. "I suppose your hand are tied, as well?"

"Nope, nothing of the sort. I just thought I'd lie here for a little while, gagged and blindfolded. You know, for a lark."

"I can leave them tied, if you like."

"Well, if you insist on untying them, I suppose I don't have anything against the idea." Jack said lightly, attempting to struggle into a sitting position while the rope cut viciously into his wrists. His head spun and throbbed with pain at the moment, and he groaned, falling back again. "A little help here, please."

Will's eyebrows furrowed worriedly. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Just sore, I think."

"You think?" Grabbing Jack by the upper arm, Will heaved him into a semi-upright angle and started to saw at the bonds. Jack gritted his teeth and sagged uncharacteristically against the support, another groan escaping his throat.

"I think…something hit me on the head." He replied wearily. "It _hurts_, but I wouldn't say that I'm _hurt_." He rubbed his wrists as the ropes fell away, and glanced about, squinting against the dark. "Where's Ryenne?"

"Well…she –"

"_She's_ not hurt, is she?"

Will hesitated. "I-I couldn't tell; she was all huddled up by the fire –"

"Fire? What fire? Why didn't you check on her?"

"The one Tyrus made. And I couldn't, they –"

"They who? You don't –"

_"Would you let me finish!?"_Will hissed, sheathing his dagger quickly. "She was by the fire with Quinn and Tyrus watching her like hawks. I think they were talking about her, but I couldn't quite hear, so I don't know for certain."

"What do they want with her?" Jack muttered, almost to himself, then turned quickly back to his comrade. "Do you remember where she is?"

"Yes, of course –"

"Then take me to her, now. Who knows what they'll do if…never mind." Jack shivered slightly, forcing himself to his feet. His head began to throb again, but he ignored it as best he could.

"But Gibbs –"

"Isn't here. Ryenne is, and we can't just leave her alone with _them_; she won't be able to get herself out of this, you know…"

"But…" Will protested, sounding somewhat deflated. "What about –"

"Please Will, just show me the way to Ryenne. She _is_ the reason we're here in the first place. We _have_ to rescue her."

Will heaved a long sigh, but nodded in assent and stooped to pick up the lantern at his feet.

"Let's go rescue her, then."

_There's no possible way I can prepare myself to do something like this…_

Ryenne's heart pumped madly as she paced around the fire, debating her options. But she really had no options to debate; _she_ was all she had to bargain with. There was nothing else Quinn wanted that she could give, and if _this_ was what it took to save Jack's life, then so be it.

With shaking fingers, she began to undo the first few buttons on her shirt, shuddering at her own intentions. The sound of approaching footsteps froze her completely. _Oh god, what am I getting myself into?_

_ Forgive me Jack, but there's no other way…_

Quinn wasn't entirely surprised to find Ryenne unbound and without her gag when he returned to the campfire, and threw a cautious glance about in search of any signs of the Sparrow. There weren't any. It made him curious and wary, and he hesitated as he approached the girl; she was, most likely, up to something. He was well aware of Tyrus hovering mere feet behind him, and took some slight comfort in that, at least.

"Where's Sparrow?" Quinn demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ryenne's eyebrows shot up. "He's _dead_, isn't he?"

"Don't play games with me, girl." He snapped, uncrossing his arms and closing the distance between them in a few brisk strides. She gazed up at him with an expression that infuriatingly resembled bemusement. "How did you get untied then, if he didn't help you?"

Not taking her eyes off him, she stood in one smooth movement and held up a small, slightly tarnished dagger, a smug smile playing about her lips. He snatched it away hastily, frowning down at her as she continued to grin, and examined the thing slowly. The blade was exceedingly dull – unfit to cut cheese with, let alone ropes; it seemed impossible that it could have been her only implement for escape. Glancing from her to the dagger and back, he decided that she was most definitely up to something.

"Tyrus," he called over his shoulder, not taking _his_ eyes off _her_. "Go find Sparrow."

"But Captain, I –"

"Just go." Quinn's tone brooked no argument, and he listened with some satisfaction as his mate stalked sulkily away; he would deal with him later. As for now, Ryenne was staring at him in what he was sure was fake disbelief. He frowned. "What?"

"Jack's not dead?"

"What do _you_ think?" he kept his tone cold, but inside he almost felt like laughing. For all that Ryenne lied, she was terrible at it. He didn't even notice that he was grinning until he saw the guarded look in her eyes, and couldn't help but chuckle quietly. "Now, what are you up to, Caelar?"

For a moment, he swore she looked guilty, but the expression was so fleeting he barely caught it. "What do you mean?"

"How did you escape?" He asked again in a slow, measured voice, even though he already knew what her answer would be – he was holding it in his hand.

Ryenne closed her eyes for a moment, and she seemed to be bracing herself for something, although it didn't strike him until she brought her hand up and started fingering the top buttons of her shirt. They were undone, revealing the graceful half-moon curve of her breasts. And suddenly he knew _exactly_ what she was up to. A bit of mocking laughter caught in his throat, nearly choking him, and he indulged himself in a grin of wicked pleasure.

If that was the way things were going to be, then fine. Two could play at _this_ game.


	41. Betrayal

DISCLAIMER: We don't own anything.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry it took so long to update. Deepest apologies.

_Why am I doing this? _Ryenne thought frantically as Quinn began to advance on her, fingering the dagger thoughtfully as he did so, a strange, wild sort of light in his eyes. There was something unmistakably predatory in the way he moved, and it made Ryenne want to forsake her ridiculous plan and start running, but she somehow managed to confine herself to a few shambling steps backward. She couldn't quite place the expression that was crossing his darkly handsome features, but she didn't like it, either. She must have made some mistake, thinking she could possibly…

_Calm down. This is for Jack's sake, not yours. Just think about Jack. Don't think about this. Don't._ Taking a slow, shaking breath, she forced herself to stay still. Quinn didn't stop, however, but came even closer yet, halting mere inches from her chest and pressing the dull knifepoint to her bared skin. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears. What was he going to do?

"Why did you stay?" his voice was barely above a whisper. It caught her off guard.

"Stay where?"

He snorted at her obviously-feigned innocence, pressing the blade a little harder. "_Here_, Ryenne." He paused a moment, a new tone coming into his voice. "Why haven't you run away?"

"I…" _Think! Why didn't you think of this before, you idiot?_ "I-I have nowhere else to go." The answer sounded flat even to her, and she regretted it as soon as it left her mouth.

Quinn looked unimpressed. His eyes flicked up and down her ragged form, resting ever-so-slightly longer on the opening of her shirt than anywhere else – taking her in – and wetted his lips, letting his gaze drift slowly back to her face. There was hunger in it. She shivered nervously, trying to retain her forced calm.

"Is that the only reason you stayed?" she recognized that seductive lilt in his voice for what it was, now. Had he caught on to her plans so soon? If he had…it was too late to back out. And why couldn't she stop shaking?

"Well…"

He lifted his free hand, as if he were about to stroke her cheek, and hesitated, his dark eyes still locked with hers. That hint of something she didn't quite like was still there, flickering like a candle flame. Dropping her gaze, she stared fixedly at the ground, trying to make her shoulders relax; there was no way her plan would ever work if she continued to look so damn tense.

"Why _did_ you stay, then?"

Why _had_ she stayed? Why hadn't she just gone searching for Will? Why hadn't she tried to find Jack? Why had she stayed to, literally, flirt with death? …Because of Jack. Because she still held the fragile hope that, if she couldn't save her own life, then she could at least bargain it for his. After all, what would Jack be worth to Quinn after the treasure truly became his? She knew that she, at least, had her own…uses…to him. But no, that wasn't an answer; not for Quinn's ears, anyway. So what _was_? Dammit, why hadn't she thought this through?

"I…don't know…"

She could feel his fingers gently twine into her hair even as she pressed her eyes shut, struck by a sudden wave of terror that threatened to drag her under. The palm of his hand brushed her cheek, as if by accident, and sent cold tremors down her spine as he whispered in her ear, voice thick with seduction.

"Ryenne, look at me."

She did, very slowly. His inky black eyes bored into her own, amber ones.

"Why did you stay here?"

"F-for you." It wasn't _exactly_ a lie.

"And what about Sparrow?"

She tried to look away, but he caught her jaw, forcing her to keep looking into his face. She schooled her features into a mask of indifference. "What about him?"

One of his eyebrows quirked up curiously. "I thought you cared for him?"

Her stomach clenched and knotted anxiously. "Well, I don't. I never have." _Liar! Traitor!_ Her mind screamed at her. She tried desperately not to cringe.

"Really? He loves you, you know."

She hesitated. "How do you know that?"

He shrugged noncommittally, his hand still absently stroking through her hair, though his eyes never left her face. "Does it matter?"

And then, suddenly, he was kissing her.

His lips were unexpectedly soft and sweet, and not at all unpleasant. She wavered for a moment, completely thrown off-balance, and then submitted willingly to the kiss, sparks rocketing across her vision and through her mind, effectively destroying her rational faculties for the moment. It felt as if the world was spinning and tumbling out of control, but wasn't moving at all. The kiss seemed to go on forever, and still it was over all too soon.

Quinn drew away infinitely slowly, leaving the remnants of the kiss to haunt Ryenne's lips and leave her gasping for breath, painfully aware of the way they were pressed together, bodies sharing heat and mutual passion. Not wanting to look at him, she buried her face in his heaving chest, feeling her ears growing hot; her rationality was bleeding back through her, and it made her want to melt into sobs. What was she doing? How could she be kissing this man who had tortured her so viciously, and feel this sort of…pleasure?

If Quinn noticed her roiling emotions, he made no move to show it, merely tugging her shirt down so that one of her shoulders was completely exposed and beginning to lay gentle, teasing kisses along her collarbone, brushing his lips tenderly across her shivering skin. Ryenne's hands found their way to his broad shoulders, gripping them tight with her fingernails as though she might float away at any second, and fighting the sharp pangs of lust that were spiking through her with his every touch. A moan rose, unbidden, from her throat. The ground came up swiftly, pushing her into further states of breathlessness as it knocked the air from her lungs with a hollow thud and something sharp dug into her back. She didn't even get a chance to reposition herself, though, as Quinn was on top of her in a matter of seconds, his fingers fiddling with the buttons on her shirt. All of a sudden everything was happening far too fast for her liking.

"What are you doing?" she gasped as he gave up with the buttons and started to tear her shirt open with a violent passion. There was a mocking ring to his voice when he replied.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

_No! No!_

"Yes, but –"

"Then there isn't a problem."

She opened her mouth to reply, but it seemed he took this as a sign to kiss her again, because his mouth was suddenly pressed fiercely over hers, cutting off her response. Along with her reply, her air supply was also cut off, and her throat was already burning with the need of it. He didn't budge when she tried to push him off, though; only ground his hips roughly into hers. She wasn't feeling the passion anymore: only the pain. Then he was drawing away, grinning his malicious little grin, and she became afraid once more.

"I'm going to kill him, you know."

Her heart stopped. "Who?" But she already knew.

"Sparrow, of course. Who else?"

She tried to keep her expression neutral, tried to slow her racing pulse, but her efforts were all in vain. "Why?"

His smiled broadened, if that was possible.

"He's worthless to both of us, or so it seems – what point is there in letting him live? He'll only cause us trouble." As he spoke, she could feel his hands surreptitiously making their way down her bare stomach towards her trousers, and she squirmed away as best she could, gasping as the sharp something pierced the already-tender skin on her back.

"You don't have to do that for me," she said quickly, trying to catch one of his hands in her own. He batted her away. "Honestly, what trouble could _he _cause?"

"I'm not doing it for _you_, love; I'm doing it for _me._" His other arm snaked around her waist, dropping the dagger he had been holding limply in his hand, forcing her to stay still.

"You could just let him go?"

"Oh, why let him go when it will be so much more fun to watch him die?"

"Because, you –" she began, trying to shove him off her once more. With a snarl, he slammed her back into the ground so brutally it made her cry out in pain. "Ow! Quinn, you're hurting me!"

"Don't you think I know that, you silly girl? And don't you think I know what you're doing?" his dark eyes smoldered fiercely. "It's all too obvious what _you_ want, _and you won't have it_."

Recognizing her own words being thrown back at her, Ryenne almost wanted to laugh at the irony – if she hadn't already been so close to tears. _No, no, no! This can't be happening! Not now!_

Not knowing what else she could possibly do, she leaned up to kiss him – to quiet him – trying to make her voice soothing and sensuous. Much to her dismay, her words came out a hoarse whisper. "Quinn, love, I'm not trying to do anyth—"

He swatted her across the face with the back of his hand, sending luminous violet lights skittering across her vision, and pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other releasing her waist to grip her jaw in a vise-like hold once more; too tight to allow her to speak, let alone escape. She was helpless _again_.

"Well, you know what, _love_? You're going to die, as well – right along with your precious Sparrow." His hand assailed her cheekbone again, and there were more of the violent lights. "But…I think I may take you up on your…_generous_…offer, first." A malevolent gleam crept into his eyes.

Ryenne couldn't force herself to breathe, couldn't think, couldn't hope to pull away. This _definitely_ was not how her plan was meant to work out…

Supporting a still-very-weak Jack took almost all of what was left of Will's already depleted strength, but Jack – thankfully – seemed to be needing it less and less as they stumbled along, leaving Will finally able to make his way along through the dark twilight of the cavern without the extra drain on his reserves. He led the way through the hills of gold, desperately hoping that Gibbs would keep on as planned and only occasionally glancing back to make sure that Jack was still following. Which he was.

Jack conviction to Ryenne surprised Will suddenly. After all, he had never known Jack to stand so steadfastly by one person, one cause – unless, of course, _he_ was that one person. Jack always seemed to have some bigger, grander scheme to get exactly what it was he wanted. But not this time. This time Jack had been telling the truth from the first, it seemed: he really _did_ love Ryenne. The thought gave Will strength of purpose (as well as a terrible pang of homesickness) and he confidently led them on, to the place he well remembered.

The unmistakable flickering glow of firelight on gold revealed that they were, indeed, in the right spot, and the indistinct sound of murmuring voices floated to them. Taking great care not to make a sound, Will began to climb as stealthily as he could up a particularly large, steep hill, blowing out the lantern as he did so. Twice, his foot slipped, creating miniature avalanches of coins that he was positive made enough noise to get them both caught, but there was no apparent sign that anyone had heard; even Jack didn't turn his head. But suddenly, the previously indistinguishable murmuring conversation became much clearer.

_"Look at me, Ryenne."_

Will crested the pile, flattening himself out on the rough surface, and cautiously peered down the other side to examine the scene below him. He was only vaguely aware of Jack creeping up beside him as he focused his full attention on the goings-on in the half-shadows of that firelight circle. It confused and horrified him, sending a short, fluttery surge of fear through his chest.

Quinn stood dangerously close to Ryenne, one hand tangled in her dark hair and his eyes fixed on her face. Despite the fact that she didn't seem to want to look up at him, she obeyed his quiet command, trembling ever-so-slightly as their gazes met. Will could sense her obvious tension, and it made his stomach churn nauseatingly, but he remained quiet and still, throwing a hasty glance in Jack's direction. The other man seemed even more riveted on the scene before them, and his eyes were blazing with something Will couldn't quite identify in the penetrating darkness; he knew that it couldn't be good, no matter what it was. It made him infinitely nervous, though he wouldn't have liked to admit it. There was a dangerous air to the situation that he was rapidly beginning to dislike.

_"Why did you stay here?"_

Ryenne's answer was much too quiet for Will's ears, but by the subtle changes in Quinn's tone and expression, he knew there had been one.

_"And what about Sparrow?"_

Will glanced at the other man again, but Jack wasn't looking at him.

_"What about him?"_

Jack's face was cold, expressionless.

_"I thought you cared for him."_

Was he even hearing it at all? Perhaps…but no. Anger was now flashing through those dark eyes.

_"Well, I don't. I never have."_

Will couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't stand it. "She's lying, Jack! She's got to be!" he hissed urgently, his gaze flicking back and forth between the two. "I _know_ her, and –"

"You don't _know_ her," All the emotions hidden from Jack's face were reflected in his voice. "You _knew_ her."

"But she _has_ to be lying, Jack – just look at her!" Will followed his own advice and realized – too late – that, at the moment, it was probably the _worst_ advice he could have given. He blinked disbelievingly. Ryenne and Quinn were…

_She's kissing him._ Jack thought numbly. _Kissing._ Hatred flared in him, so hot and bright he was almost surprised that he didn't stand out like a beacon atop the hill. After a moment, though, he realized that his hatred wasn't for Ryenne, although it should have been. No, it was for Quinn. Quinn, the young upstart; the thief who had taken from him his dignity, his pride, his treasure, and now…Ryenne.

There was a rushing sound in his ears that he tried to ignore, and a blurriness in his eyes that he couldn't. He became vaguely aware that Will was speaking to him, and he knew the words were important, but he could do nothing more than nod his head and turn away, starting to stumble down the hill into the darkness below. He thought he heard Will whispering a call after him, but he didn't stop.

Wandering amongst the hills of dull gold, his hatred began to slow its mad course through his veins, the fire hardening into a numb crystal. He knew that the crystal would shatter if that dagger of betrayal he had just witnessed were allowed to touch it, so he concentrated on one thought: he was going to kill Quinn.

Pausing by a pile of trinkets, he decided that the first thing he would need was a weapon. He had given his knife to Ryenne, and Quinn had, of course, taken his sword and pistols (was there no end to his thieving? he thought fuzzily.), and there was no point waiting until he had need of one to find it. He would need it soon enough.

Wishing rather that he had taken Will's lantern, he began digging through the morass of gold, hoping that there would be something usable and not covered in gilt and other ridiculous forms of ornamentation. He needed a good, solid weapon; Quinn did not need the dignity of dying at the hand of some king's dagger. The first knife he found was no good, made of soft, solid gold with a sapphire as big as his knuckle on the hilt. He stuck it in his belt anyway and continued searching.

As it turned out, however, luck was with him for the second time that night (which was hardly a gratifying thought, considering how many times it had deserted him. But, a man took what he could get.) Nearly elbow-deep in the pile, his hand suddenly closed on the cool, wire-bound hilt of a sword. He drew it out and held it up, feeling the heft and balance. It hardly seemed a formidable weapon: the blade was thin, almost in the style of a fencing rapier, though not quite so, and the wire-bound hilt had a basket encasing to protect the hand. The whole thing was pale silver, with white-gold woven into the hilt. One wavy line undulated its way down the slight curve of the blade itself, and there was not a jewel to be seen anywhere.

Jack rather liked it.

Sitting, he ran a finger up and down the smooth metal, the image of Quinn and Ryenne locked together flashing over and over before his mind's eye. His crystalline hatred for Quinn was still more-than-intact, but here was something new: he couldn't conjure up any feeling for Ryenne whatsoever. There was no betrayal, only an icy coldness that penetrated his whole being. Closing his eyes, he pictured the scene as he had witnessed it only minutes ago.

_Quinn's hand tangled in her dark hair as she slowly turned her eyes upward to his face…_nothing but coldness.

_Ryenne's hands moving up to grip Quinn's shoulders as the kiss became more passionate, more deep…_nothing but the numb, icy feeling.

_Quinn laying kisses along Ryenne's bare shoulder as she leaned into him…_nothing but a cold, unexpected gust of wind blowing through the tunnel. Jack opened his eyes in shock at the sudden chill, wincing as his finger slipped and the blade bit into his skin. As he looked down to see the bright red spots of blood beading on the new wound, he realized that he was sitting, bathed in the pale glow of moonlight: the storm had passed. Standing, he stared up at the similar shafts of light cutting clearly through the thick darkness of the cavern through hold in the ceiling. They alighted on the heaps and piles of gold, the light refracting and sliding eerily about. But, eerie and slightly disturbing though the sight was, it gave his thoughts a certain lucidity and lent him inspiration. Even though the place where his heart used to beat felt replaced by icy nothingness, even though he knew nothing he did now would be for Ryenne's sake…

He had a plan.


	42. Game Over

"Jack!"

Will stared disbelievingly after Jack as he shambled off into the darkness, anger and confusion pulsing through his chest. _"Jack!"_ he hissed futilely, scrambling to his feet and taking a few hesitant steps after the other man before halting abruptly. His loyalties were divided in two. How could he leave Ryenne – a helpless young woman – when something was so obviously wrong…but Jack? Could Will just let him wander off into the black emptiness of the cavern, possibly even to his own death? Will shook his head; there was no need for unnecessary dramatics. But he did need to make a choice.

Before he could even begin to think, however, Ryenne's scream decided for him. Spinning on his heel without another glance after Jack, he hurried back up the side of the golden slope, not caring how much noise he made, so long as he reached Ryenne before…_anything_…happened. Cresting the hill for the second time, he saw his suspicions confirmed as the scene played out before him. Ryenne was lying on her back on the ground, pressed under Quinn, but all the heat and desire seemed to have been lost. She struggled violently to break free, and her lip had split open, trickling blood all down her chin. A second desperate cry was quickly cut off as Quinn pressed his mouth forcefully over hers, smearing her blood over his own lips as well. This time, Will didn't hesitate. The plan didn't matter, what Jack thought didn't matter: only Ryenne mattered.

Drawing his dagger with a deliberate care, he started to descend down into that circle of firelight, his steps light and measured as he skirted a large gilt chest and several other virtually useless ornaments. He stayed near the safety of the shadows until he was mere feet away from the pair, who were still unsuspecting of his presence, took a deep breath, and pounced.

Or, at least, he would have, had he himself not been pounced on at that very moment.

Growling in surprise as he was jerked violently backward by his shirt collar, Will felt himself lose his footing only seconds before he slammed into the ground, and yet, still somehow managed to turn the movement into a swift roll, taking a moment to regain his balance before scrambling to his feet to face his attacker. His heart caught slightly in his chest as he recognized the familiar, hulking form of Tyrus, Quinn's first mate, looming threateningly over him. The huge Irish brute held a naked blade in his hand, hatred clear in his eyes, and it didn't take Will long to recognize that it was his own dagger Tyrus held. But how could he have not noticed he'd dropped it? Will swallowed somewhat nervously and straightened.

"You aren't Sparrow!" Tyrus spat stupidly, his thick accent sounding even more pronounced than the last time Will had heard it – hidden in the brig of the _Silver_ _Gryphon_.

"No, I'm not." He replied coldly, shifting into a defensive position.

"Well done, Tyrus. You've captured Sparrow's loyal little accomplice."

Will had to resist the strong urge to cringe at the sound of Quinn's voice, making the muscles in his back twitch in protest as he spun to face another of Ryenne's oppressors. His blood boiled at the intended insult in the other man's words – _Sparrow's loyal little accomplice_ – but Quinn remained as placid as ever, his hands tucked in the pockets of his long black coat and a mocking smile teasing the corners of his mouth. A lock of his dark hair fell over an equally dark eye, glistening with sweat from his immediately prior…_exertions_. Will couldn't hold back a vicious snarl at the thought, and took a few striding steps toward the other man, his hand fumbling with the empty sheath at his belt. The very blade he planned to kill Quinn with was the one that stopped him in his tracks, the cool steel pressing hard enough to draw blood. _Fool! Idiot! _He berated himself disgustedly. _Never turn your back on an enemy!_ But there were enemies on both sides.

Quinn's eyes sparkled with scornful laughter.

"Well done, indeed."

Will stuck out his chin defiantly, pressing his neck harder against the dagger's rough edge as he did so. "Yes, well done. You've managed to capture the Sparrow's _accomplice_, but not the man himself!" he growled, throwing the slight back into Quinn's face.

"Can you be sure of that?"

Despite his anger and deep desire to retaliate, Will hesitated. Looking past Quinn's smug visage, he let his eyes settle on Ryenne's shivering, huddled figure, and frowned worriedly. Jack had been completely wrong in his assumptions; there was nothing about the poor girl that suggested she'd been enjoying Quinn's attentions in the least. A newly-purpling half moon of a bruise had started to form around one of her tear-swollen eyes, and her lip was still dripping with blood, giving her beaten, bedraggled appearance a sharper edge. Tucking her knees into her chest with a shudder, she tugged her tattered shirt back up over one battered shoulder and raised her head to meet his gaze. Her amber-gold eyes were haunted with fear and suffering. He was the only hope she had at the moment, and he'd already gotten himself caught in Quinn's web. Unless…

Tearing his gaze from Ryenne, he aimed a glare at the dark man standing before him, and forced a smile onto his own face. "More certain that you could possibly imagine, _captain_." He spat, wriggling furiously as Tyrus twisted his arm up behind his back with a rough jerk. "I must say, I'm amazed by you."

"Oh?" Quinn had the audacity to sound amused. "And why is that?"

"Your list of grand and glorious accomplishments just keeps growing – why _shouldn't_ I be?" Noticing the feral glint in Quinn's eyes, Will steeled himself. _Keep him distracted until Ryenne gets the chance to run. Keep talking! _"After all, you've gotten to the center of the maze that is Isla de Muerta (enjoy finding your way out without Sparrow), which is virtually _impossible_ to find, or even _locate_ (again, enjoy finding your way out), you've _lost_ your guide, captured a _blacksmith_, stolen an island that is home to some of the most _cursed_ treasure a pirate could come in contact with, and raped a _helpless_ young girl, all in one voyage. Brilliant, captain. Simply brilliant."

The dagger dug mercilessly into Will's throat, but he didn't care, because he could see that infuriating grin sliding slowly from Quinn's face. Unfortunately, it wasn't replaced by the furious – or, at least, mildly annoyed – one he was expecting, but rather with something that seemed along the lines of being…ponderous.

"_Cursed_ treasure?"

Wait…had he said…? _Damn_.

Fortunately enough for him, it was at that very moment that Ryenne decided to make her presence remembered. Very much remembered.

"I am not helpless!" she shouted indignantly, struggling violently as Quinn pressed a booted foot into her chest, which pinned her – quite effectively – to the ground. "I – " she was cut off by an abrupt, bone-shattering kick to the ribs.

Several things happened at once. Fetching Tyrus a hard blow in the stomach with his free elbow, Will lunged forward to Ryenne's aid, just as she moved to knock Quinn's legs out from beneath him. The ending result found Will sprawled face-down on the ground once more, with his nose crushed against what appeared to be Ryenne's midriff. His mind took that rather awkward moment to register the fact that Ryenne's shirt was, in fact, flung wide open, leaving her entire chest exposed, more or less. Shock kept Will staring for a long, bewildered moment before realization of _who_ and _what_ he was staring at soaked in. A vague feeling of discomfort clenched in the pit of his stomach.

"Will, please get your face off of me." Ryenne whispered hoarsely, her voice filled with the same horrified, embarrassed tension Will was feeling at the moment. He complied with her request as quickly as was humanly possible…

…and realized that, somehow, his and Ryenne's efforts had paid off – if only in the slightest of ways. Both Quinn and Tyrus were on the ground, obviously having a bit of trouble dealing with the shock that they were there in the first place. He used their brief moment of confusion to his greatest advantage, seizing Ryenne's arm – more roughly than he meant to – and hauling her to her feet, all in one swift movement. She gasped in pain, clutching her ribs with one hand and her injured thigh with the other, greatly favoring that leg. _She's injured_, he thought dully, bracing her with one arm. It would slow them both down if they were to run…so he'd have to stay behind and stall for time. He wouldn't let her injuries stop her from escaping, at least.

"Run!" he hissed, shoving her enough to make her stumble away a few steps, but not enough to send her tumbling to the ground again. She stared, somewhat dubiously, at him. "Go find Jack!"

"But, Will – "

"GO!"

Finally shaken out of their stupor, Quinn and Tyrus started to struggle to their feet, and it didn't take any more than _that_ to persuade Ryenne to comply. Watching her erratic, limping jog for the briefest of moments, Will sighed miserably and turned to face his death.

> > >

Ryenne ran blindly, stumbling along through the oppressive darkness and trying to ignore the stabbing pains shooting through her ribs and the throbbing ache of her thigh. Every shuddering, gasping breath she drew was waking agony, burning down her throat and catching in her bruised lungs. Between the pain and her concern for Will's safety, she didn't have the time, or the energy, to pay attention to where she was running, letting her feet carry her where they willed. By the time she noticed where it was her feet were taking her, it was too late – or too pointless – to turn back. Because there, standing ever-so-blatantly atop the cresting hill in front of her, was the Aztec chest she so loathed, bathed in a patch of silver moonlight.

And there, leaning over it, hand outstretched as if in some unknown ritual, was Jack.

> > >

All his anger came rushing back to him as he saw her standing there. Even the weak, defeated look in her eyes and the blood running down her chin (_what has she done _now) only served to make him more furious. He let the yellowed dagger slip from his fingers, afraid he might use it if he kept it in his hand, and clenched his fist around the gold coin in his other palm, moving to slip it into his pocket before she noticed.

"Jack…" she whispered reverently, striking another chord on his temper. How dare she? How _dare_ she? Jack dropped the coin hastily into his pocket and braced his hands on the edge of the stone chest, very nearly reaching out for the dagger once more. _Here_ was all the emotion he'd been searching for. Now that he'd found it, though, he wasn't sure he wanted it.

"So, you've found me," he spat bitterly, watching with cold eyes as she scrambled haphazardly up the slope of golden trinkets. He couldn't help but notice how very frail her condition was: her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, the limp she harbored from the gash on her thigh had become somewhat more pronounced, and the parts of her face that weren't covered in bruises were caked in dried – or drying – blood. He sneered. "I suppose you're going to run and tell your…_your_…_Quinn_…so he can come kill me properly, eh?"

She froze, her mouth falling open. "What?"

"Don't play coy with me, Ryenne."

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and she trembled slightly, as though she'd suddenly become cold. "Jack…I don't understand."

"Well, you bloody well should," he could feel his fingernails grinding against the rough stone of the chest; hear the blood pounding in his ears. "Why else would you have come to find me, except to bring me back to your little…_captain_? Hmm?"

"What are you talking about, Jack?" Why did she look so fragile, the treacherous little… It wasn't decent how easily she played with his emotions. He fumed, clenching his teeth until his jaw hurt.

"_I saw you kissing him!_"

For a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of something that looked remarkably like guilt flash through her eyes, but it disappeared too quickly for him to be certain, and was replaced by a terror that nearly made him want to reach out and comfort her. But only nearly. Shaking her head disbelievingly, she shrunk away from him and sunk to the ground in one slow, shuddering movement that bordered on collapse. Her hands fumbled with her shirt, pulling it tighter around herself as she opened and closed her mouth a few times, apparently searching for words that wouldn't come. He glared, feeling the anger surging through his veins like fire. Images skittered across his mind's eye. _Quinn's hand tangled in Ryenne's dark hair…Ryenne's hands…kisses along her bare shoulder…_

"I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't want to…he…I was only trying to…" her voice was breathy and weak, coming out in broken gasps as she sat, shivering, at his feet. "I tried, but I couldn't…_I couldn't_…"

"Couldn't what? Couldn't help yourself?"

"Jack, please, you don't understand – "

"Oh, I think I understand perfectly." He couldn't look at her, now. How could she tear his heart from his chest in one moment and beg his sympathy the next? Did she really expect it from him? Did she think him a fool? No, Will had been right all along…

Will. Where was he?

Forcing himself to return his gaze to the quivering figure huddled at his feet, he stooped quickly, grabbing her wrists and hauling her upright with a rough jerk. For a moment, she wouldn't look at him, silvery tears cutting clean trails down her battered cheeks. He shook her, causing another hiccupping sob to escape her throat, but she only turned her head further away.

"Where is Will?"

A gasping sob, then silence.

_"Where is Will?"_

"I d-didn't w-want to leave him, Jack, b-but he told me to come f-find you…and they…t-they – "

"_They?_ You handed him over to _Quinn_, didn't you?" He could feel the pulse in her wrists beating against his hands, but he didn't loosen his white-knuckled grip, squeezing tighter and tighter until he was sure he would hear the tell-tale crack of bone.

"_No_…no, I c-couldn't, Jack…I couldn't…b-but he – "

Dragging her to her feet with no regard whatsoever for her delicate condition, he pinned her between himself and the Aztec chest, subduing her feeble struggling with little trouble at all, and caught her jaw with his other hand, forcing her to keep looking at him. Her breathing was ragged and her eyes were glazed with tears that leaked out onto her cheeks in a little stream. She looked very frightened, indeed. It made Jack feel like a villain.

"What did you do to him?"

"N-nothing, Jack! I – " This time, it wasn't him who cut her off.

"Ah, there you are, Ryenne, love. We'd thought we lost you again."

Icy hatred shot through Jack's heart at the sound of that familiar drawling voice, and he lifted his head to meet the origin of the sound, locking gazes once more with those cold, inky-black, emotionless eyes. A smug smile twitched at the corner of Quinn's mouth as he stared up the slope at them, hands tucked confidently in the pockets of his long coat. Tyrus stood just behind him, restraining a struggling, heavily-bleeding Will, a vicious grin upon his face as well. Jack frowned, flicking his gaze to Ryenne, who looked paralyzed with terror, and back. Quinn chuckled.

"So, Mister Sparrow…it appears the game is over."

> > >

Gibbs smiled grimly, running his calloused fingers over the white arrow that had been hastily scratched into the cave's stone wall, and motioned to the four men following close behind. _Well, three, actually…_he corrected himself as a beam of yellow torchlight reflected off of young Quinn's fair hair, reminding him of the boy's presence. The small glimmer of light seemed to add to the strange shadows that danced along the cave walls, giving the place a tense, haunted feel. He could see the lad felt it too, if the boy's crouched, wary stance was anything to go by. But Quinn had insisted on trailing along, despite the all-too-obvious danger of the situation. And things had gone smoothly so far – all too smoothly for any comfort. It was as if there was something horrible waiting to happen, to pounce, just when they weren't expecting it. Their luck so far seemed small and untrustworthy by comparison.

Gibbs sighed, peering ahead into the deceptive darkness of the tunnel. Oh well… A man took what he could get…


	43. Capture

_Why does this keep happening? Why can't they just kill us and be done with it? _Ryenne sighed, twisting her bonds behind her, but without any real conviction. She had the feeling her wish would come true sooner than she expected, and, while it would save her a lot of suffering, it wasn't exactly a comforting thought. Far from it, in fact. The real point was that there was absolutely no hope of escaping, now. Quinn had decided his prisoners could be more easily guarded aboard his ship, and he'd been right. After all, what could be easier to guard than a small cabin aboard a ship completely occupied by _his_ crew; furthermore, a cabin with one door and no windows.

And so, there they were, all trussed up and ready for the slaughter; Jack and Will bound back-to-back on the floor while she occupied what had become her least favorite chair in the entirety of the world. In truth, she wasn't surprised it had turned out the way it had. True enough, Jack had put up an excellent fight, and had even managed to give Quinn a nice slice to the arm, but his efforts were futile. Quinn had his entire crew behind him, while Jack had…well…Will and herself, both of whom had been almost completely useless at the time. He, of course, was not speaking to anyone at the moment.

She could understand his anger, but she had tried to explain what had happened between her and Quinn more than once already, and received no reaction from him whatsoever. He merely sat in stony silence, his face an expressionless mask; not even struggling with his bonds. Will had even argued her case for a while, reinforcing her story with what he had seen, and offering what comfort he could when her words dissolved into sobs. She'd cried until she thought she would dry up and die, but she still got no signal that Jack heard or cared about any of it. She was past tears now, however; a small knot of anger and frustration had settled in instead.

Stubborn, stupid man.

Opening her eyes slowly, she found herself meeting his steady, even glare – the first reaction she'd gotten from him since they'd been shoved in their stuffy little prison, what seemed like hours ago. She returned the gaze, shifting uncomfortably in her chair as she realized he wasn't glaring at her face, but rather lower than that: her shirt had somehow fallen open once more, due to its extreme lack of buttons, leaving her more or less, completely exposed. Now, to realize what he was glaring at made her very uncomfortable, indeed. What was worse, she could do nothing about it, considering her hands were tied behind her back the way they were. She opened her mouth to say something about it, but, much to her surprise, he spoke first.

"Why do you even bother with clothes anymore, Ryenne? You seem to be without them more often than not." He muttered bitterly, slowly raising his gaze to her eyes. She felt horribly dirty under that glare.

She tried to make her voice sharp, but failed horribly. "Not by choice, I assure you."

"You didn't seem to be struggling too hard when Quinn did that to your shirt."

"I _told_ you, Jack! I was – "

"Bargaining?" his voice was cold, accusing. "Didn't do you much good, did it?"

She couldn't help when her voice cracked with her next words.

"I did it for _you_!"

"For me?" he snorted, shaking his head. "I don't see where _I_ fit in when it's you kissing Quinn."

"I wasn't – "

"Would the both of you just _be_ _quiet_!?" the sharp command in Will's voice caught them off guard, and they both feel silent, dropping their gaze to the floor sheepishly. Will cleared his throat, somewhat self-consciously. "Ryenne, is there anything you can do about your…erm…shirt?"

Ryenne could feel her face heating up, and she desperately wished Quinn or someone else would walk in the door, if only to divert the attention from her for a scant moment.

"Not with my hands tied like this, I bloody well can't." she snapped, deliberately not meeting Jack's gaze, which had returned to her.

Will persisted, discomfort evident in his tone. "Could you, maybe, try to shift it back together a little?"

Sighing exasperatedly, she twisted slightly to the left, then to the right, shrugged and then hunched her shoulders…and succeeded in making one of the sleeves slide off her shoulder completely. Will coughed nervously, and Jack stifled another derisive snort, rolling his eyes in disgust. And then, Ryenne's wish came true, too late to do her any good. The door swung open.

> > >

Quinn smiled as three pairs of eyes shifted in his direction, watching him apprehensively and waiting for him to decide their fate. They didn't need to wait, though; he'd already decided. Sparrow and the other one would die; they were unnecessarily troublesome, too much so to let live. Ryenne, however, he would keep. She was far easier to handle than the other two, and still had her uses. She _was_ a woman, after all.

Speaking of which, a second glance in her direction told him she still hadn't managed to reassemble the tatters of cloth hanging about her shoulders into something resembling a shirt. She was still bare to the waist, and shivering with fear. His grin broadened.

"Enjoying yourselves, I hope?" he asked sardonically, turning his gaze on the stranger among his prisoners. The man merely frowned in reply, a disappointing reaction for someone who had so passionately fought with Tyrus earlier. He had obvious skill with the blade, and obvious lack thereof with speech. A dull one, then. Quinn turned instead to Sparrow – always one to rise to a challenge.

"And you, Sparrow? I trust you find the view most excellent." From the corner of his eye, he could see Ryenne's face going crimson with embarrassment.

"Go leap off a cliff, you bastard." The stranger hissed, his voice remarkably dull for all the anger behind his words. Pathetic, really.

"I daresay you'll find yourself doing the leaping before I ever do."

"And what do you mean by that, exactly?"

He couldn't help but grin. "I think you know _exactly_ what I mean."

"Do I?"

A stunning argument, if there ever was one. "You – "

Sparrow finally spoke up.

"If you plan on killing us, Quinn, you might as well get it over with."

For a moment, he was taken aback by the lack of…well…_anything_ in Sparrow's voice. No anger, no emotion. It was as though the man was already dead; in spirit, at least, if not anything else. And Quinn was nearly certain why that was. Glancing at Ryenne again, he let the smile on his face turn feral. Not _nearly_ certain – he _was_ certain.

Crossing the room in a few short strides, he paused to run his fingertips along the girl's bare collarbone, delighting in her small shudder of fright. Making sure Sparrow's eyes were still on him, he bent his neck slightly, substituting his lips for his fingertips with the next caress. Ryenne half-heartedly attempted to jerk away, and he ceased the feeble gesture with a hand at the back of her neck, forcing her to tilt her head back into a more vulnerable position. Flicking his gaze to Sparrow for a brief moment, he caught the man's eyes, filled with hatred and fury, but helpless to his situation, and turned back just in time to see Ryenne's eyes slide shut.

"Please, Quinn…_don't_…" her whisper was barely audible, but he knew that Sparrow had heard it, as well. It wasn't a plea of dread; she wanted him, despite her feeling for the other captain. It was an admission of her guilt. It was enough. Bending his head, Quinn pressed his lips gently against hers. She submitted all too quickly, and he felt her muscles relax and then tense once more under his hands. She pulled away.

"No."

_Too late, Caelar.__ He knows. _Straightening, Quinn fixed the smile back on his face and turned toward the other two men once more. The stranger looked disgusted. Sparrow, however, looked absolutely livid.

"Ah, how rude of me…" he beamed impishly, jerking Ryenne up so that she faced the men, as well. "Would either of you like a taste?"

A vicious chuckle escaped his throat as Sparrow tried to lunge at him, dragging the other man along with him, and both ended up tangled on the floor, growling in frustration. Revenge was marvelous. The freshly-bandaged wound on his upper left arm still stung, after all.

Digging his boot into Sparrow's side, he rolled the man over until his face was fully visible in its mask of rage. He chuckled again.

"Don't worry, Mister Sparrow. I'll kill you soon enough."

> > >

Quinn nervously scrubbed a hand through his golden hair as he stared up at the fourth white arrow scratched into the cave's wall, and carefully reviewed the plan Gibbs had told him in his head. It was a terrible plan, nowhere near fool-proof, and he hated it, but it was the only chance they had to save Captain Jack and Miss Cae…_Ryenne_. Or, at least, that was what Mister Turner had said. Quinn himself wasn't so sure that there wasn't a better plan to be made, but he went along with it, anyway. After all, it was Mister Turner, not him, who had gone through the previous Isla de Muerta fiasco with Jack. And that had turned out well, hadn't it? He wasn't certain. He'd heard the story before, but couldn't quite remember all the details. Something about gold coins and curses and the like…but he wasn't one to believe such fairy tales as cursed treasure and demon-dead pirates. It had seemed ridiculous when he'd heard it before. Somehow, though, it didn't seem quite so ridiculous, now, as they struggled through the oppressive darkness of one of Isla de Muerta's mazes of tunnels. It seemed as though it could be all-too-true, and that bothered him.

Suppressing a nervous shiver and clutching his herb satchel close, he followed silently as the rest of the crew began to move on once more, continuing to review the plan in his head. They were here to save the captain and Miss Caelar, and that's what they would do, ghost pirates or no. He just hoped that there wouldn't be any.

> > >

Will pounded the bars of the brig with his fists over and over again, hardly taking notice when the skin on his knuckles split and started to ooze blood down his fingers. His every muscle was tense with frustration and desperation, filling him with the need to move, to vent, to lash out at whatever he could. He couldn't be imprisoned like this, he couldn't let himself be put to death; images of Elizabeth kept flashing through his head, driving him to continue his futile attempts at escape. It was hopeless, no matter what he did, though. Even if he, by some miracle, managed to escape from the iron-barred cell, a guard waited for him at the head of the stairs – Tyrus, probably, from the occasional muffled conversations he kept picking up. This was it; the end, and he could do nothing about it, no matter how it unnerved him. He wasn't going to see Elizabeth again, wouldn't see his child… He slammed his fist against the bars, feeling the pain surge up and down his arm.

"Would you _stop_ that?" Jack groaned from somewhere behind him, sounding annoyed. "It's useless anyway; there's no point in mangling your hands like that."

"I can't give up, Jack. There's got to be some way – "

"There isn't. Believe me, I've thought of every possible way of escape, and none of them would work. There's just no way." He sighed disparagingly. "Besides, there's only the two of us, and Quinn's got his entire crew with him. It's hopeless."

"You _can't_ give up; we _have_ to get out!"

"What do you mean, I _can't_ give up? I already _have_."

Will continued his fruitless assault on the bars, hissing with pain after every blow. "Gibbs is out there with the _Pearl_, waiting for us, and I plan on getting back to them."

"If we don't return to Port Royale, Gibbs will know what to do, Will. The _Pearl_ will be in good hands – "

"You don't understand, Jack." Will snapped, spinning to face his comrade. "Gibbs is _out_ _there_, in de Muerta, waiting for my signal to attack. We still have a _chance_! All we need to do is – "

"Even if he is out there, there's nothing we can do now. Quinn's already started sailing. Just give it up, Will. It's over."

The deadened, hopeless look in Jack's eyes only increased Will's need for action. How could this man, _Jack_ _Sparrow_, have given up so quickly? _Jack Sparrow_ didn't give up; he always had some contingency plan, always kept going until he got whatever it was he'd wanted. And now...he was resigning himself to his death…how could it be? What had happened to him?

As soon as he'd asked himself the question, Will knew the answer. Ryenne had happened. And because Jack thought he'd lost her, he'd lost everything that kept him wanting life. It was all too easy to understand. If Will lost Elizabeth, he didn't think he would be able to hold the will to live, either. But he hadn't lost Elizabeth, and he wouldn't allow himself to be lost to her, no matter what happened. And Ryenne…

The very thought of Ryenne turned Will's stomach. She was still being kept up in Quinn's cabin - separate now from him and Jack - and only the gods knew what was happening to her, though he thought he could guess fairly accurately. The last glimpse he'd caught of her, eyes filled with dread and fear as she watched them being led away, was burned into his mind. She was all alone in whatever was going to happen to her…and Jack was, soaking in his selfish misery. How could he say he loved her, and not even try to get to her? Will seethed. He wanted to turn and shake Jack out of whatever trance he was in, knock some sense into the man, but he kept his back to him, gripping the cell bars with a white-knuckled intensity.

"She wasn't lying to you, Jack. She was trying to save your life."

Silence.

"And now she's up there, by herself with that monster, and all you can do is – "

"You don't know what you're talking about, Will." Jack's voice was cold as ice, and bitterer than Will had ever heard it. "Did you even _see_ them together? She couldn't be happier with that 'monster'."

"I saw her. I heard her screams, too, Jack. He was – "

"Taking what she was willingly giving." He snorted angrily. "Good luck to him. The woman's got the disposition of a viper, and fangs to match."

Will clenched his teeth, watching a droplet of scarlet blood run down his wrist. How could Jack have fallen so far so quickly? His despondent attitude was positively infuriating, not to mention depressing.

Jack seemed to have taken Will's silence as a sort of defeat, and he continued to mutter derisive comments about Ryenne under his breath, pausing every so often to utter a mirthless laugh. Will couldn't take it.

"Honestly, Jack! Do you believe any of that?" he snapped, punctuating the statement with a sharp blow to the bars. "Did you see her eyes? She's afraid, Jack."

Silence. Will sighed exasperatedly, half-turning so that he could see Jack's face in the dim twilight. The expression on that face could be described as nothing short of furious. No matter how despondent Jack seemed to have been, he'd struck managed to strike a chord. Now, perhaps, he'd get some sort of reaction from the man.

"She loves you, Jack, and you left her to him."

More silence, as the look on Jack's face slowly started to turn violent. Will almost wanted to laugh, just to see what would happen, but decided it was totally inappropriate. Besides, he didn't think he could muster up a laugh when faced with the given situation. There was far too little humor to be found in it.

"She loved you enough to sacrifice herself in your place, and whether it worked or not, it took more courage than could ever be expressed. And then you turned your back on her. I think _you're_ the traitor, Jack, not her."

Jack's lip curled back and his eyebrows dived into deep furrows, giving him a livid look that Will was not at all pleased to have evoked from him.

"How can you possibly be so certain?" he growled. "You don't even know her."

"I don't think you do, either, if you even have to ask that, Jack." Will couldn't drag his eyes away from that terrifying gaze, wondering vaguely if Jack was about to start foaming at the mouth, but he continued on anyway. "When I saw you two dancing together, forever ago, I knew. The look in her eyes, the way she clung to you…I can't think of any other explanation for it." He paused, watching the emotions play over his friend's face. "But, you don't think so…so I must be wrong. Never mind, forget I said anything."

Jack didn't have to say anything else; the tears forming in his eyes said it all for him, and suddenly, Will remembered a conversation he and Jack had had, what seemed like an eternity into the past…

_Considering my and Ryenne's relationship up to this point, I should be the bloody last person who should be wanting to save her, and –_

_So why are you going to save her, then!?_

_Because I love her, you idiot, that's why!_

And, suddenly, things didn't seem quite so hopeless, after all.


	44. The Choice

Author's Note: Chapter 44 has been edited to make it longer – so we _did_ actually write some new stuff.

The smug grin on Quinn's face was enough to make Ryenne want to cower in her chair, but she fought the humiliating urge with every ounce of willpower she had left. It wasn't much, but – though it had failed her so many times before – it was enough…at least until he took those last few taunting steps across the dusty floor to pace around the back of the chair she was still tied to. Then it became simply too much to handle. What was worse, he seemed to notice this fact – much to Ryenne's disadvantage – and exploited it in every way he possibly could. His fingertips traced teasing circles along her bare shoulders, and his breath whispered hot against her ear, though he hadn't yet said a word. It appeared he wanted to draw out her torment, her all-consuming discomfort with the situation, and languish in it; dangle it in front of her face, torture her with it. And he was doing it remarkably well. She couldn't help it: she cowered, voicing the thought that had been racing through her head every few seconds.

"Why are you keeping me here, Quinn? Aren't you going to kill me with the others?"

For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer, instead merely continuing to loom behind her, his smug expression evident even when she couldn't see his face. But, just as his hands began to slowly work their way down her spine, he spoke.

"I was under the impression that you wished to 'bargain', Ryenne, love." There it was again: that hint of something smooth and unpleasant and dangerous in his tone. "I understand that I have a few things in my possession that may be of value to you." His fingers moved over the ropes on her bound wrists, crusted with dried blood from her struggles. She winced.

"I was under the impression that you _didn't_ wish to bargain."

A hiss of steel on leather as he drew his blade from its sheath.

"I'm sure we can come to some sort of…agreement." Cool metal against her wrists. "But first…I want you to tell me something."

She could sense the bitterness in his voice, and it sent chills down her spine. "And what is that?"

His breath was hot against her cheek again, his face so close that his lips brushed her ear. "Why Sparrow?"

A treacherous question, indeed.

"What do you mean?"

The blade pressed harder into her wrists, such a sharp contrast from the lips that continued to brush tenderly against her skin. "Why would you go to such lengths to save a man like Sparrow – a pitiful wretch of a man – and yet you would not willingly stay with me, when I have so much more to offer you?"

"Have you forgotten, Quinn, that _you_ are the one who had me beaten, humiliated …_raped_…and then thrown into the sea? That you're the one who turned my own ship against me?"

"Ah…you see, love, that's where you're wrong. Your ship was turned against you without my helping it at all. A woman is a disgrace as a captain, good seaman though she may be or not." He chuckled maliciously. "Though, in your case, Ryenne, I doubt you would've lasted long – even if you were a man."

"And you still have to ask why I won't stay with you?" Smoldering anger started to burn a hole through her stomach. "Now it's my turn to ask _you_ a question: why do you _want_ me to stay? Do you even care? Am I a trophy? Or is it simply that you want what you can't have?"

"Wrong again, love. I could've had you any time I wanted – I think I've proved that enough times." The skin on her wrists felt ready to break under the pressure of his blade.

"Then why bargain? Why not just take what you want instead of toying with me like this?"

She could practically _hear_ his grin broadening. "Are you trying to give me suggestions?"

"Would you really consider letting Jack go?"

"Well…now that you mention it…no, I wouldn't." She hoped he would choke with each and every condescending, taunting word that slipped off his forked tongue.

"I won't give in to you."

Of all the responses Ryenne expected, the scathing chuckle she received was probably the least comforting. "That's a very nice statement, love, but you see…I wasn't asking permission."

* * *

Maybe things weren't hopeless, but they certainly weren't very hopeful, either. Will noted this ruefully as he watched Jack pace restlessly back and forth across the width of the cell. It wasn't much of a walk, being only three or four steps, but it seemed to work well enough for Jack. At any rate, he didn't complain.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it…" Pausing a moment to pound his fist against the bars of the cell, Jack broke his relentless string of curses and whirled around to face Will, a fuming scowl on his face. "I don't suppose _you_ have any ideas, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I don't."

"Damn it, damn it…" he returned to his pacing.

Will sighed and leaned back against the rough wall, feeling the splintery wood scrape the back of his neck. A pale beam of moonlight shone through a chink in the surface, falling weakly across his lap and trailing along the damp floor. He brushed his fingers across it, watching the shadows shiver across the silver and thinking about Elizabeth. At that moment, he would've given anything to see her face again, to tell her that he loved her. If things continued the way they were going, it didn't seem likely that he would ever be able to. Another hopeless sigh escaped his throat.

"Would you stop that worthless sulking? You're distracting me." Jack snapped impatiently, his shadow falling across the lonely moonbeam as he loomed in front of Will. "God knows when that snake will return to kill us."

Feeling slightly mutinous at the mention of death, Will tilted his head back so Jack could see the glare on his face…and recoiled in shock. Jack's face was pulled into a rictus grin, his eyes staring out from a moldering skull. Rotting flesh hung from his skeletal arms. The shock only lasted a moment, and Will realized just what it was he was looking at.

He grinned.

* * *

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ryenne's mouth was dry as cotton; she could barely choke the words out. Behind her, her fingers had grown cold and stung, and Quinn's knife still dug into her wrists – near to breaking the skin, but not quite.

"Why don't you tell me what you think it means, Ryenne, love?"

She shuddered angrily. "You _bastard_."

He chuckled, and the pressure on the knife increased. "Now, now, Ryenne, there's no need for name-calling. Let's be civil about this, shall we?"

"Civility is a concept that a brute like you could not possibly exist farther from. I'm shocked to find that it even exists in your vocabulary." She snapped, weary at the exchange. It was always the same story.

Another deep chuckle. "You haven't talked to me like that since you were sixteen." He pinched her cheek fondly. "A haughty little lord's daughter in a poor man's jacket. Ah, the memories."

"Don't touch me."

He said nothing, and the long silence that stretched between them made the small hairs on the nape of her neck begin to prickle. And then, without warning, a small kiss touched her shoulder. Then one more, and another, slowly moving towards her collarbone.

Ryenne gritted her teeth, leaning forward to escape his touch. "Get away from me, Quinn."

"No." Jerking her by her shoulders so that she slammed back against the chair, he began his kisses once more. But these were not the same gentle, teasing kisses of before. These were full of anger and fire, his teeth dragging mercilessly over her bare skin. It was all she could do not to cry out. And suddenly, the knife reappeared, though only for a brief moment. Ryenne flinched in surprise as he sawed through her bonds, tugging them from her bloodied wrists as he did so. His lips moved against her ear once more, his whispers sounding like a roar. "You can cooperate, or you can fight, but one way or another, I _will_ have you, Ryenne." The threats made her spine tingle.

"You won't get away with this."

His laugh was cold and sharp. "My god, you have the most ridiculous notions." His hands left her shoulders, and he circled around her chair until they were face to face. If she thought his voice was cold, his eyes were colder. "Honestly, Ryenne, who's going to save you now? Your precious Sparrow is locked in the brig – as is his little friend – and the crew most certainly won't help you." He smiled dourly. "May I ask what your plan is, Miss Caelar?"

Having absolutely nothing to say in reply to this, Ryenne simply narrowed her eyes and frowned, feeling a blush rising to her cheeks. Her hands lay – useless - in her lap, still half-paralyzed and numb from the ropes that had bound them. Quinn sniggered, shaking his head wryly at her.

"That's what I thought." He let out an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. "Well, since you seem to have no plan, we'll just have to settle for mine."

"And what plan is that?" Despite her best efforts, Ryenne couldn't keep her voice from shaking. Quinn, for his part, merely sounded bored.

"Why must you ask the most inane questions? I think you haven't been listening to a word I'm saying." He lifted one of her limp hands and started to trace the rope marks around her wrist with a measured curiosity and tenderness.

"Let go of me, Quinn."

He let the hand drop back into her lap. "There you are again, making the same fruitless demands. Isn't there something more interesting you could say?"

She would have lunged at him and wrung his neck right then and there, had she not seen the glint of lamplight off the knife's blade in his hand. He must have unsheathed it again, though she hadn't heard him do so. She had to face the facts: at the moment, she would have no hope in fighting him. So, instead of following her instincts, she pressed her eyes closed and gritted her teeth again.

"And what would you have me say?"

He squatted in front of her and started to fiddle with a loose thread on the remnant of her shirt. "Oh, I don't know…I was thinking of something along the lines of, 'forget Sparrow; let's get nude and make passionate love.'" He smiled with a smile that positively oozed charm. His playful manner was extremely disturbing. She had to resist the urge to shove him away.

"You disgust me."

"Oh, really?" His knife was under her chin in a second. "Stand up, would you please, Ryenne, love?" The point of the blade forced her to tilt her head back. Not daring to open her eyes, she complied; slowly, using as much grace as she could muster not to cut her own throat on his knife. Even after she had accomplished this feat, however, the blade did not leave her neck.

"You're not above this, Ryenne. You can't hide behind fancy words forever; you can't wish your way out of this, and your useless protests won't stop me. It's far too late for any of that." He paused a moment, and she could feel his eyes studying her, though she couldn't see them.

"Take off the shirt."

She hugged her arms to her chest, protecting the remaining shreds of cloth that still endeavored to cover her. "No."

"Ryenne, you will take off that miserable excuse for a shirt, or I will tear it off of you." The blade pressed harder: a warning. Ryenne trembled a moment, but held fast.

"_No_."

"Have it your way, then." Her eyes snapped open so that she could brace herself for a fight, but it was already too late.

Seizing a handful of tattered fabric, Quinn shoved her in the small of her back, and she heaved forward onto her knees. The sound of tearing cloth rent the air.

Ryenne gasped, throwing her arms across her now-completely-bared chest to cover herself, and scrambled across the floor, trying to put as much distance between herself and Quinn as possible. Not very far, she discovered all too quickly, the wall looming up before her and barring her path. Turning to face Quinn once more, she flattened herself against it and huddled down, letting her bedraggled hair fall over her shoulders to keep her better covered.

Quinn sniggered. "Ah, Ryenne…so very brave a moment ago, and now cowering in the corner like a dog. When will you learn to give up your foolish pride?"

Realizing the mistake she had made in looking so weak a moment too late, she straightened as best she could and glared up at him, though she didn't move her arms from her chest. "Never."

"You're so very predictable." He grinned, baring his teeth like a wildcat. "Say the right word and you spit like a maddened cobra…" he was nearly standing on top of her now, near enough to reach out and stroke her cheek, which he did. "…use the right caress, and you melt."

She tried to turn her face from him, disgusted, but he caught her by the jaw, forcing her gaze to remain locked with his. His eyes were pools of impenetrable blackness, glittering with malice and unspoken threats. The pressure of it on her made her chest as tight as if it were clamped in a vise and her eyes water in fearful agony. He didn't move, didn't speak…he didn't even look as though he were breathing. His dark curls, glistening with sweat, fell over his brow in a tousled knot, giving him the mischievous appearance of a schoolboy. His face was not the innocent face of a boy, however, but the beautiful, cruel, sculpted features of a demon. Ryenne suspected that, if the Devil were to choose a face for himself, it would be Quinn's. The thought almost made her shiver, but she managed to suppress it, somehow.

Though obviously not well enough for Quinn.

"Cold, love?" His gaze transformed to one of painfully mocking sympathy. "Why don't you let me warm you up?" The hand that had gripped her chin moved to the back of her neck faster than she could stop it, clawing into her hair and hauling her to her feet all in one agonizing instant. She cried out, tearing at his wrist with both hands, but he did not let go. Not until he had dragged her to the center of the room, depositing her onto the floor once more.

"Stand up." He growled, releasing her with a jolt.

She crumpled into herself, sobbing.

"I said _stand_ _up_."

His hand was still hovering dangerously close to her head, and his knife was still in his fist, and so it seemed she had no other choice than to obey his command. Unable to stop the dry sobs that wracked her pain-ridden body, she managed to struggle to her knees, but no farther. Her legs, weak from fear and exhaustion, would not hold her up any longer, no matter how she pushed them. The wound on her thigh, which till now had been crusted shut, began to trickle blood once more. She could feel it running down her leg. It burned. Quinn seemed to notice her inability to stand, but it didn't appear to persuade him to be more merciful. Instead, it looked as if it was urging him on to new viciousness.

Seizing her under one arm, he yanked her to her feet - quavering though she was - and began to circle her like a vulture, prodding her ribs whenever she seemed about to collapse. She felt like a trapped animal, helpless and trembling, without even the dignity of teeth or claws to aid her. Her legs trembled beneath her, and Quinn stabbed her with an unforgiving forefinger, causing her to jerk so violently she almost fell over nonetheless. And then his hands were on her waist, steadying her and making her want to shudder at the same time, tracing the curve of her hips and pulling her tight against himself. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the rough cotton of the shirt he was wearing. It made her uncomfortably hot, and she sucked in a few sharp breaths, her heart throbbing in her ears.

And then, he was gone. Or, at least, his arms were. She could still feel his daunting presence hovering behind her, still and quiet for a minute, with only the sound of the wind in the waves to be heard. But was that really the wind? His silence suddenly made her feel anxious, and she spun quickly to face him, the movement making her vision go black around the edges. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, and the last thing she saw - before the floor came up to meet her – was Quinn's bare chest, glistening in the lantern light.


	45. House of Daughters

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** A completely Ryenne-oriented chapter! We would say "Whoohoo," but given the circumstances of this chapter, we hardly think it would be appropriate. This chapter is definitely an R-rated chapter. Read it at your own risk. Oh, and everyone check out our new webpage.

Ryenne awoke to a dull, throbbing pain in all her limbs and a sense of absolute nakedness. Before she even moved a muscle, she knew she was bound, wrists pinioned somewhere far above her head, and her heart dropped into her stomach. Her old wishes for death came flooding back with a renewed intensity, and she embraced them readily. What difference did it make? Soon enough she'd be as good as dead, anyway – if she wasn't already. Attempting to steady herself with a deep breath, she let her eyes flutter open to review her situation.

The cabin had grown fairly dim, lit only by a single oil lamp stationed on a rough table that sat next to her, nailed to the floor, as most of the furnishings were. The very location of the table made her own position hit her like a kick in the ribs: she was tied to the head posts of the bed. _Quinn's_ bed. Tied the very same way she had been all those months ago, when Tyrus had hovered over her like the shadow of evil itself. She glanced hurriedly around the room, trying to stave off her rising panic. Was Tyrus here? Was she to be forced to relive that horrifying moment, to face the terror and helplessness all over again? She didn't think she could bear it. However, instead of seeing the hulking form of Tyrus in front of her, she found her eyes alighting on something completely different.

The amber glow of the oil lamp gleamed off of Quinn's bare shoulders, creating rivulets of shadow that ran down the lines of the muscles there. His back was turned to her, and he appeared to be absorbed in some hidden task, his head bowed slightly over a basin of water. She couldn't see what he was doing, but it kept him from tormenting her – for the moment – so she didn't ask, curious though she was. Instead, she let her eyes roam over his naked torso, studying every line and smooth movement of his lean form. She had never seen him like this before. He'd always been curiously shy about letting her see him without a shirt to cover himself. And, after a moment's quiet study, she finally understood why.

Long, white whip scars crisscrossed his shoulders, thick scars from what had obviously been deep lacerations. For a moment, a wave of pity threatened to well up inside her, but a stab of pain from her own, still unhealed, whip wounds quickly quelled it. The pitiless didn't deserve pity, did they? She certainly hadn't seen any in his eyes as Tyrus whipped her, beat her…even raped her. Of course, he hadn't been present then, but his overwhelming lack of pity had always been apparent. Still, she couldn't help but allow a small twinge at her heartstrings at the thought of him facing such torture. Proud, beautiful Quinn. She'd never once thought of him as weak…until now.

"There no use in pretending you're asleep, Ryenne – I know you're not." Quinn's voice eradicated any lingering thoughts of sympathy from her mind with a violent jerk. She couldn't help but flinch. "And there's no point in staring – few pirates are strangers to the feel of the whip these days." He threw a hard glance over his shoulder at her. "You should know that well enough."

She knew her curiosity would, like as not, have a high price, but she gave in to it, nonetheless. "And whose whip did you feel, Quinn?"

There was no missing the way his shoulders tensed, struggling to hold back the remembered pain and shame. Ryenne knew the feeling all too well to mistake it for anything else. But Quinn was stronger than she was, and his cool, unruffled demeanor was back in a blink of her eye.

"Captain Red wasn't nearly so fond of me as he was of you, Ryenne."

"But…I never saw –"

"You don't see much at all; blindness seems to be a habit of yours."

She would have replied, but Quinn's movements took on a sudden sharpness that demanded silence, so, though her unfailing pride continued to protest, she remained quiet, watching and waiting for her fate to unravel. A numb sort of anguish enveloped her, and, unsure of what else she could possibly do, she let her eyes continue to travel Quinn's body, searching for some kind of weakness, some chink in his cold wall. Her only hope was to fight him on his own level: find his flaw and exploit it. The idea made her sick, but she could see no other way to create some hope for herself, however tainted that hope might turn out. She swallowed her weaknesses, disgusted and embarrassed by them, and searched for his.

A strip of white cloth was wrapped tightly around the upper part of his right arm, only the faintest trace of blood showing through the pristine fabric – the only remaining sign of the scuffle he'd had recapturing Jack. Hardly a weakness. He had a gash on his arm, yes, but Ryenne had those by the dozen – it wasn't a suitable fault for her to prey upon. She doubted that, even if their physical conditions were reversed, she would ever be able to overpower him. She had to find some other way. After all, she was a pirate, wasn't she? Pirates were known for their cunning and ruthlessness. All she had to do was…

"You're awfully quiet, given the situation." Quinn observed, turning to face for the first time since she'd regained consciousness. A damp rag was in his hand, pink with blood. "I was certain I would be tiring of your threats and protests by now."

She squirmed under his stare, her nakedness (excluding the rough blanket draped over her legs) becoming uncomfortably apparent. "It doesn't matter whether I speak or not, so why should I?"

He grinned. "Finally, something I agree with." She cringed as he began to cross the room, advancing on her. "As much as I enjoy your futile arguments and trite little demands, things _would_ be much simpler if you didn't speak." He took the last few steps towards her, the rag in his hand leaving a trail of water droplets on the floor behind him. "Things would be easier if you didn't move, either." He leaned towards her…

…and she flinched away, giving her bonds a desperate jerk.

"What are you doing? Leave me alone!"

Quinn sighed. "There you go again. I thought we'd gotten over this, Ryenne, love." He perched lightly next to her on the bed. "This is how things are going to be working: I'm going to finish cleaning the blood off of you, and you are going to keep still and shut your mouth." He brandished the bloodied rag at her. "Understand?"

She cringed, unsure of what to say in reply. He must've taken her silence for agreement, however, because his attention now appeared to be completely focused on the long gash across her abdomen. He'd created the wound with his own blade, but he was now prodding and studying it with a curiosity that would suggest he'd never seen the like of it before in his life. His eyes were cold and hard, but his fingers worked surprisingly tenderly, pressing the rag ever-so-gently to her wounds. Once or twice, Ryenne found herself beginning to relax, and would tense once more, admonishing herself for nearly letting her guard down to him. Frustrated and afraid, she squeezed her eyes shut and waited impatiently for his ministrations to be over.

For a moment, the only sounds were his gentle, even breathing and the muted crash of waves against the side of the ship. And then, suddenly, the door was rattling on its hinges, shuddering under the weighty blows of…

"Come in, Tyrus."

Ryenne's breath caught in her throat as the door began to open, creaking in protest, and Tyrus stepped in, his shadow stretching across the floor to brush the foot of the bed. She shied away from it, bile rushing into her mouth and choking the scream that was struggling to emerge. Quinn didn't even pause in his work as his beefy henchman entered the cabin, a bucket of water in his hand and a leering grin on his face. She, however, could keep to no such calm indifference. Her legs tangled hopelessly in the rough spun blanket that endeavored to cover them, and she pulled herself fiercely from Quinn's hands. Only then did his demeanor change.

"Good lord, girl, would you stop this fidgeting?" Gripping her arm savagely, he wrenched her towards him once more and scrubbed at a streak of dried blood that ran down her stomach.

"Ouch!" she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain._ Clicking his tongue at her, Jack reached out with somewhat more gentle hands and pressed the damp rag into her palm. She flinched, but this time did not try to pull away. _

Jack. A lump formed in the back of her throat, but she choked it back, trying feebly to pull away from Quinn once more. Her attempts went unnoticed.

She could feel Tyrus's eyes raking over her, but she couldn't force herself to meet them. But he made no move towards her, only stared, and Quinn continued on with his labors, seemingly oblivious to both Tyrus's "hunger," and Ryenne's terror.

"You can put that down over here, Tyrus." He said after a moment, still not raising his eyes. "And take the one from the table away – it's already filthy."

Ryenne's terror and confusion at the situation only lasted a moment longer. Tyrus strode across the cabin and placed the bucketful of water on the floor beside Quinn. Pausing a moment to take in Ryenne's naked form one last time, Tyrus lifted the basin of water from the table and stared into it contemplatively. His task complete, he gave Ryenne a final sneer and exited just as abruptly as he had appeared.

Relaxing slightly as the door slammed behind him – and then catching herself – she twisted her hands in their bonds, wincing as the ropes dug into her raw skin. The pain itself seemed dulled in a way, however, as if she'd numbed herself to the situation. She almost felt resigned to it…and it terrified her. She couldn't grasp the goings-on around her – none of it made any sense.

"Why are you doing this, Quinn?"

His reply was terse. "Doing _what_, Ryenne?"

"Well, you're…"

She paused a moment, unsure of how to reply. Even she didn't know what it was he was doing. He had her bound to the bed, but seemed to be doing nothing more than cleaning her wounds. And his movements were nothing, if not gentle and considerate. What _was_ he doing?

"…helping me."

His hands froze, an expression of incredulous amusement mingled with annoyance spreading across his features. "_Helping_ you? Where on earth did you ever get the idea that I was _helping_ you?" He let out a derisive snort. "You're naked, Ryenne, and tied to a bed, of all places. How do you know I haven't raped you already?"

"You couldn't – "

"Oh, _couldn't_ I?" he quirked an eyebrow at her, dropping the bloody rag into the fresh pail of water beside him. "Think for a moment, Ryenne, love. Have you any idea how long you were unconscious, how easy it would have been for me to take advantage of that vulnerability? You're not strong by any means, Ryenne. I could have done it."

Her heart thudded in her chest. "But…you _didn't_…?"

He studied her for a minute, a wry smile on his face, and then shook his head. "No, of course I didn't. What fun would that be?"

She breathed in a sigh of relief, though what she had to be relieved about, she wasn't sure. She wasn't nearly out of the woods yet, and Quinn was still watching her like a hawk would its prey.

"Why are you doing, then, if not helping me?"

"I'm making you look presentable."

"Presentable?"

"You're covered in blood and dirt, Ryenne. I would hardly say that that is an attractive look for you." He retrieved his rag, finally lowering his piercing gaze. She frowned in confusion, the horrible feeling of numbness settling upon her once more. There was a taste of fear lurking somewhere just below the surface, but she could only sense it, not embrace it.

"But…presentable for whom?"

A malicious glint came into his eyes. "Have you ever heard of a Red Moon House, Ryenne?"

A stab of disgust pierced the numb cloud.

"Yes."

"Are you then, perhaps, familiar with the term 'House of Daughters?'"

She eyed him warily, fighting to catch hold of an emotion – any emotion to bring her back to the situation at hand, little as she wanted to be there. "I'm afraid I haven't."

The glint spread from his eyes to his lips, forming a wicked grin. "Well well, this is becoming more and more enjoyable by the minute. For me, that is.

"To tell the truth, it was really Tyrus's idea. A rare bit of brilliance, you might say. I certainly didn't expect him to have such an…_interesting_…plan for you. In fact, I was a little puzzled about you, myself. You're far too much trouble to keep on the ship, and I most certainly couldn't let you go free…" He smiled to himself, his eyes alighting on her once more. "I could kill you with Sparrow and William (Yes, I've discovered his name. There's no need to look surprised, you silly girl; it would have happened sooner or later.)…but that seems such a waste."

"If you're thinking of sending me to a Red Moon House, Quinn – "

"Of course I'm not sending you to a Red Moon House. The women that work in Red Moon Houses are there completely of their own accord. There are also certain …_rules_… that the men who frequent such places have to abide by. That's what makes the House of Daughters so special: there are no rules."

She had missed something important, she knew. Otherwise, she wouldn't be so damn calm when he was smiling at her like that, that charming, sadistic smile he so loved to treat her with. "What are you trying to say, Quinn?"

"I'm trying to say, Ryenne, that this kind of place is one that men like Tyrus frequent – men with…_alternative_ tastes, perhaps even violent ones. To put it bluntly, it is where men like Tyrus go to…_enjoy_... helpless girls like you – for a reasonable price. That is where I'm sending you. Well, _selling_ you would be a more accurate way of putting it, I suppose." His voice was light and reflective. "You're not a virgin, so you're not as valuable, but I'm sure you'll still fetch a decent price – if you look presentable, that is. They won't take you if you look like you're half-dead, which you do."

It wasn't sinking in. It wasn't possible. He was lying to her, trying to frighten her into submission to something. She only had to wait for the catch, the bait he would dangle in front of her to save her from such a fate. There was _never_ only Tyrus's way; he always had his own alternative to offer. She only had to wait. _She only had to wait._

But wait for what? The situation had most certainly changed while she'd been unconscious, though she wasn't sure how. She hadn't any idea what position she was in now. Were Jack and Will dead? She doubted it. Quinn wouldn't give up the chance to cause her more suffering by killing them in front of her. He had patience enough for that little pleasure, she was sure. And, speaking of pleasure…what had happened to his violent lust, his alleged 'acceptance' of the offer she'd made, then retracted?

_ That was it._ That was his catch, his panacea for all the sufferings she could be made to endure. He would make her choose: him, or this House of Daughters. And, cruel though he was, she knew she could never stand to live a life filled with Tyruses. But…what about Jack? Was this the end? She couldn't let him die – couldn't watch him die. After all, she… She didn't know what she felt for him. Did she love him?

_ One two three. One two three… her mind hissed at her as she gripped Jack's shoulder tighter, tense and unsure._

_ Then a hand was cupping her chin, gently forcing her face upward, and she was looking into Jack's deep, brown eyes, all her worry falling away. Her heart was beating in her ears, drowning out all sound, and so loud she was afraid he'd hear it. He didn't appear to, however, gazing down into her eyes with a confident sort of smile on his face…he'd never looked so handsome._

Shaking her head to clear the memory, she turned her attention to Quinn, watching and studying him as though the situation at hand weren't reality at all. She watched him with a calm she couldn't believe she had – a calm that seemed to originate from somewhere other than her own tumultuous mind. And she saw him for the first time, or so it seemed.

He was beautiful. Beautiful in the way a wolf might be, or a tiger – a dangerous, murderous, cold beauty. He was beautiful, but there seemed to be no shred of humanity left in him. His remorseless black eyes trailed over her stomach, focused on his task. Intense, passionate eyes…but she didn't fall into them the way she did Jack's. His smile was never genuine. His look was never tender. He wasn't Jack. And because he wasn't Jack, she could never love him.

Because she loved Jack.

"I would've thought there would be more protesting involved if I offered you a proposition like that." Quinn sneered, yanking the blanket from its tangle with her legs and beginning to wash the blood from her thigh. She shivered and flinched, her body tensing at her own sudden, complete nakedness, and his proximity to it.

She swallowed hard, clamping her thighs together. "Because you're lying."

"Lying?" he looked mildly surprised. "Why would I lie? The truth is _so_ much more entertaining."

"Because…" she struggled to keep her voice from shaking. "…you wouldn't… _sell_ me with our bargain unfulfilled, would you?"

His voice was suddenly cold. "I don't recall a bargain, Ryenne. You offered yourself up to me like a common whore. Personally, I don't consider your nonexistent virtue worth trading a life for." He scraped roughly at the wound on her leg. "This 'House of Daughters' will play to your best talents, it seems."

She winced. "But…you kissed me."

"And that's supposed to mean something, is it?" He paused, sitting back to glare at her. "Did it mean something to _you_?"

"I…"

"Did you actually believe that I would spare Sparrow's life if you made love to me?" he scoffed, letting out a derisive snort. "You're my _prisoner_, Ryenne. I don't need your permission. You are at my mercy; you live and die at my slightest whim. I have no need to _bargain_ with my prisoners." He wrung the rag between his hands as though he were attempting to strangle it as subtly as possible. "And when my prisoners are no longer of use to me, I get rid of them. I don't need a man like Sparrow hanging around, and I don't need you, either."

Becoming more disoriented and desperate by the second, Ryenne blurted out the first thing that came into her mind. "But…I'm a woman. Even Tyrus says that women have their uses – " She started as his hand came to rest on her leg once more.

"And you're agreeing with Tyrus, now, are you?" A cold, wry smile crept across his face, and he began tracing tormenting circles up and down her leg. She knew he could see her shivering. "I told you, Ryenne. When you chose Sparrow, I told you that if you ever tried to come back to me, I would kill you. Well, I've found something worse than death, and no amount of 'bargaining' will save you."

She couldn't believe what he was saying. After all of his taunting, his kisses, his violent passion – the bruises from which still marked her body – was this really what was happening? She could hardly breathe for fear and dread, the numbness finally fully releasing its grip on her.

"But, Quinn…I –"

He clamped a hand on her thigh, cutting her off in a flash of pain.

"What is it you want from me, Ryenne?" He thrust a hand between her legs, causing her to cry out in surprise and pain. "Is _this_ what you want?"

He was on her in one dizzying moment, his teeth tearing fiercely at her already-bruised skin, her stomach, her breasts. There was nowhere to retreat to, and, though she tugged viciously at her bonds, she couldn't move, couldn't push him away. His fingernails raked at her thighs, tugged at his trousers, tangled in her hair. He was everywhere at once, filling her senses with pain and terror. Anguished tears rolled onto her cheeks as he forced her legs apart. It wasn't happening. It _couldn't_ be happening.

And then, suddenly, he was inside her. Blinding white pain tore through her as he thrust again and again, harder and more painful with every movement he made. His fingers knotted themselves in her hair, wrenching her head back to leave her neck exposed to his ravenous kiss, and she sobbed aloud, feeling his teeth break the tender skin.

"Is this what you're asking for, Ryenne?" he hissed in her ear, drawing his lips away from the blood that now trickled down her throat. "Is this what you wanted?" He moved again, and she trembled beneath him. "_Is it_?"

She couldn't utter a word past her sobs, shaking uncontrollably as he relentlessly plunge himself inside her. She was choking on her own, salty tears, bleeding and suffering and dying. Her wrists burned in their bonds, and she tugged at them ineffectually, screaming as the ropes dug in. She longed to faint, to die – anything to stop the pain, but it persisted.

The pain in her abdomen flickered momentarily, and then, with a final thrust, Quinn stopped, trembling, and lay still. Through her haze of pain, she could feel his hot breath on her cheek.

"There you are, Ryenne. Consider our bargain fulfilled."


	46. A Fool's Plan

"Damn. This can't be right."

The crew of the Black Pearl looked on in disbelief as Gibbs sifted a handful of Aztec coins through his gnarled fingers. The chest had lain open when they arrived in the cavern, the cursed gold free for the taking…and none of it appeared to be missing. Even the yellowed dagger lay in its usual place inside the chest. And yet, something seemed off. Wrong. Gibbs shuddered to think of a possible repeat of the whole Barbossa ordeal. He doubted Jack would be able to escape so well a second time, clever as he was. Instead of stewing on thoughts like these, however, he decided to take action.

A sweep of the main caverns and many of the adjoining tunnels and smaller rooms had proven free of any sign of Jack or the scallywags of the Silver Gryphon. True, this meant there would be no battle, but it also meant no Jack, which was much worse than the prospect of a possible scuffle. Jack Sparrow was the finest sea captain in the whole of the Caribbean, and the Black Pearl thrived under his – sometimes somewhat unorthodox – leadership. The loss of Jack would be more than just the loss of one man – it was the loss of the Pearl's spirit, for the ship seemed unwhole without him. And here he was, missing or worse, and Gibbs knew no way to find out which it was. The Silver Gryphon was already long gone, and Jack with it.

Gibbs was no naturally a cruel or callous man, but at that moment, he found himself cursing the day Ryenne had set foot on the Black Pearl. The bloody girl had ruined everything; it was her fault that Jack was no longer on his own ship, doing what he did best. It was her fault he'd lost his head and gotten into this mess. But there was nothing for it now. Jack was lost, and they had no way of finding him.

Furious at his own helplessness, Gibbs gave the stone chest a vicious kick. "Come on, lads - help me close this devil's dowry back up, as it belongs."

* * *

_Feeling slightly mutinous at the mention of death, Will tilted his head back so Jack could see the glare on his face…and recoiled in shock. Jack's face was pulled into a rictus grin, his eyes staring out from a moldering skull. Rotting flesh hung from his skeletal arms. The shock only lasted a moment, and Will realized just what it was he was looking at._

_He grinned._

* * *

"_What_ are you bloody grinning at?" Jack snapped with an affronted glare. The boy looked as if he had gone completely mad. The smile never left Will's face, though, as he scrambled to his feet.

"Don't move. Just stay – stay right there." He grabbed Jack's hand and turned it over, moving it back and forth, gently brushing his fingers over it and peering at it, as if looking for some kind of reaction. Jack looked away and cleared his throat, his indignation turned suddenly to a sort of stammering bewilderment. And then it hit him.

"Ah. Um." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, suddenly aware of Will's proximity. The other man didn't seem to notice, however, so Jack opted for a more direct approach.

"You know, Will, lad, I realize that this has all been very emotionally traumatizing and all, what with us running about (or not, as the situation currently stands) like bleeding lunatics trying to mount an undeniably heroic rescue for a woman even more flaming insane than we are for the past…" He tried to count the days, but the memories seemed oddly run together and hazed. "Anyway, the point is that it's been a _long_ time, and what I mean to say is that it's perfectly natural for someone at such a tender age as yourself, especially with an expecting wife, to start having doubts and second thoughts and to maybe begin to question…things that…maybe shouldn't be questioned, especially in the face of a situation of the magnitude of the one in which we are currently find ourselves…" He trailed off uncertainly, finally at a loss for words.

Will was taking his turn to stare as if he were an escapee from a mental asylum. He blew out his breath exasperatedly, realizing that he had definitely been babbling. Professional pirates of his caliber _never_ babbled – babbling was a thing for politicians, not pirates. He decided to try again.

"Thing is, Will – William – I value you highly as a friend and one of the best mates I've ever sailed with, but…I just don't go for –"

Will said a word that Jack was fairly sure he'd never said around Elizabeth. At least, he hoped not.

"God Almighty, Jack…You actually thought -? YOU ARE THE DENSIST…!" He took a few deep breaths. "Never mind. Just _look at your hand_!" And, with barely suppressed excitement, he shoved Jack's hand into the milky, undulating moonlight filtering through the porthole.

Jack shuddered slightly as, in the space of an instant, the healthy, but scarred, flesh of his hand changed to gleaming bone and raw, mangled tendon.

"Oh, _hell_," he murmured. "Bloody, _bloody_, thrice-damned flaming hell." He withdrew it slowly, reaching with his other hand into one of the many cleverly-concealed pockets on his person. "I'd forgotten all about this little beauty." He flipped the cursed coin into the air, catching it deftly and scowling. "If we ever get out of here, Ryenne's not going to like that at all." He wandered over to the other side of the cell, and Will had a brief glimpse of his full skeletal transformation as he passed through the patch of moonlight. If Jack noticed, however, he gave no sign, only leaning against the damp side of the cell and muttering.

"Not. At. All."

* * *

The wind was cold and damp as it blew through Elizabeth's open window, carrying the muted sounds of the street along with it. She paid it no heed, however, merely drawing her dressing gown tighter around herself and continuing to stare out over the harbor, as she had been doing for days. How long had it been since she'd last seen Will? Days? Weeks? Surely it couldn't be months, could it? Not quite. It was a month and a half since they'd held the fateful Christmas party – he hadn't been away any longer than that, but it seemed like an eternity and a half. The world didn't pause to wait for his return, and she felt as though she was falling behind the world somehow. Commodore Norrington had long since returned from the high seas with his newly-repaired ship, and had been paying her frequent visits, often lecturing her on the irresponsibility of her husband's absence during this important time in their lives (though he always claimed a deep respect for Will), and stated that he would never be far, if she needed him. She would politely turn him away – often feigning illness or fatigue – but she couldn't brush off the effect his words were having on her. Why had Will chosen to leave her now to run off with Jack? True, there was the girl to save (a childhood friend of Will's? she wasn't sure), and she wasn't, after all, very far along in her pregnancy, but…

Placing the palm of her hand flat across her own stomach, she imagined she could feel the life growing there. Will's child. Her child. A child that would, no doubt, share in its father's tousled brown hair and smiling eyes. She sighed, pushing her hair back off her forehead and turning from the window. Will was a brave man, though sometimes foolish, but Jack had kept him alive all through the ordeal with Barbossa. She had to trust that Jack would keep him alive now, when it was so very important, and return him to her. She only had to be patient and wait.

* * *

Will sighed to himself, inspecting a torn fingernail. This was rapidly becoming not only ridiculous, but tedious. It had been at least twenty minutes since the epiphany that Jack was again one of the undead, and the other man still hadn't said a word. He was just leaning against the furthest wall, eyes half closed and that damned coin still grasped tightly in his hand.

The pose would've seemed nonchalant if the hand hadn't been shaking slightly.

Personally, Will didn't understand Jack's reaction at all. Of course it must have been an upsetting realization, but this should have been nothing but a minor inconvenience to the Jack Sparrow that Will knew, the Jack Sparrow that always had a plan and a crafty smile ready to lend confidence to those with less than himself. It wasn't like him to shut down completely like this. Perhaps it had something to do with Ryenne, Will reflected. He knew full well the strange effects women could have on men (and vice versa.)

His finger had begun to bleed. With a frustrated sigh he stuck it in his mouth, trying to latch onto something, anything, about the situation that would help them gain the upper hand. The chance to escape. They were both unarmed, which put picking the lock out of the question. The same crates he had so fortuitously found the rum in last time had been re-stacked haphazardly against the far wall outside of their cell, shrouded in darkness and well out of reach. Besides – Will had rather lost his taste for rum, at least for the moment. That meant that their only tools were their clothing, some suspicious-looking, moldering straw strewn over the floor, and…his eyes alighted once more on Jack, and it clicked. Their only tool was _Jack_.

With a gleam in his eyes and a mind suddenly full of ideas, Will prepared to break the silence.

* * *

"NO, I BLOODY WELL WILL _NOT_."

Will winced slightly as Jack's voice beat out against the soggy timbers of the ship and died. Inwardly, though, he rejoiced; this reaction was far superior to Jack's previous sulk. After having gone through a variety of ideas, each wilder than the last, he had finally gotten to this, the _piece de triumphe_, the plan to end all plans. At least in his mind. Jack, clearly, had not quite taken to it yet.

"Will, mate, I want to get out of here just as badly as you do, I promise. But don't bother running by me again why it needs to involve me sacrificing an arm, because I'm not going to do it."

"It wouldn't be _permanently_ sacrificing an arm," Will said, more confidently than he felt. In all reality, he was only working with a rough theory – he had never been cursed himself, and had no way of knowing for sure. That was hardly a point that would comfort Jack, though, who seemed close to having an apoplectic fit. Will put on his best placating face.

"We would just…take it off, send it up to get the keys, and reattach it. It would be simple."

Jack's voice was strained. "And what if it doesn't…"re-attach?" What then? I'm not a bloody carpenter's doll, Will! You can't just take me apart and put me back together again! Curse or no curse, it doesn't _work_ that way." He paused. "Besides, that beast of a man…what's his name…Tyrus – he has the keys."

Will scanned the gloom outside of the meager light their lone lamp afforded them. "No he doesn't. They keys are right…" The rack with the pegs was distressingly empty. "Oh." _Damn_ Tyrus. But what if…

Jack interrupted his thoughts. "Now that your bloody half-brained scheme is, proverbially speaking, on the rocks, I'm going to sit down over _there_ – " He gestured expansively to the other side of the cell. " – and wait."

His ire beginning to rise, Will glared at him. "Wait? _Wait_?" He filled his voice with scorn. "Wait for what? Your "opportune moment?'"

Jack ignored his tone, carefully shifting some of the moldy straw with his boot and settling himself.

"It's worked before," he said placidly, all previous signs of upset cleared from his affect. "I see no reason why it shouldn't work now."

Will was breathing hard, feeling his face flush. Had the man always been this difficult? He thought for a moment. In all honesty, he had.

"So…that's your plan is it? To wait?"

"Aye."

"I see."

And, having no other recourse, Will went across to Jack and kicked him in the ribs. _Hard_.

"OW! WHAT IN – _WILL_, THAT _BLOODY_ HURT!"

Will stood over him, arms crossed and a skeptical eyebrow raised. That had felt _good_. A convenient release of tension.

"Did it really?" He shot back. "Think for a moment."

As Will had expected, this gave Jack some pause. Obviously confused, he touched his side, first with one hand, then with the other. Understanding dawned, though somewhat dubiously.

"Of course." He glowered up at Will, who was finding it difficult to prevent a smarmy grin from emerging. "No, it didn't hurt. Point taken." He stood, eyeing the other man reproachfully. "That was hardly fair, though."

Now Will grinned in truth.

"Pirate."

* * *

Minutes seemed like hours - and hours like minutes - in the dream world in which Ryenne now resided. Entire days could have passed by, and she wouldn't have noticed in the least. Her tears had left her a dried-out husk, incapable of the true grieving the situation merited. All there was left to her was her pain and emptiness, punctuated by the sound of Quinn's deep, even breathing in her ear. Following his exertions, he had drifted to sleep quickly enough, quiet and contented as a cat in a shaft of sunlight. It seemed that no possibility of danger had crossed his mind at the thought of falling asleep next to his most recent victim, and Ryenne had to admit that he was right in thinking so. Agony was in her every movement, every breath. She was in no condition to continue living, let alone stop someone else from doing so. He had done his job thoroughly enough, and now he was enjoying the few precious hours of sleep that were his reward.

Sleep, however, was completely lost to her. The pain wouldn't allow it, and neither would her tumultuous thoughts. Thoughts that kept circling back to Jack, no matter how desperately she tried to stop them. He was going to die, of that much she was certain. Who could save him now? Her own attempts had been futile, yes, but they had been attempts, at least. Now there was no one left to even _attempt_ to rescue him. And Will…poor Will. His death was as certain as Jack's, and his situation was even more tragic, if that was possible. He would leave behind a young wife and an unborn child… and it was all her fault. Her fault for being so stupid, for hiding the past, for running away. All her fault. And now her mistakes would kill the only two men who had ever truly been kind to her, cared about her…loved her, even. She couldn't bear it.

_"Are you then, perhaps, familiar with the term 'House of Daughters?'"_

The House of Daughters. A place men like Tyrus go to satisfy their unusual tastes. Her new Hell, of which Tyrus – she was sure – would be a frequent visitor. There would be no escaping then, and every minute would be haunted by pain and fear, memories of Tyrus…and now of Quinn.

_"You'll be fine, don't worry." Brushing a strand of hair away from her face in a surprisingly tender way, he added, as an afterthought. "I'll be right there beside you."_

_But you're not beside me, Jack. And it's all my fault. All my doing._ She let the tears roll down her face, unable to wipe them away and unwilling to wrestle any longer with the bonds that prevented her from doing so. It was useless, anyway. All the times she'd ever tried to escape a situation such as this had been useless. There was no hope. She was doomed, however little she wanted to admit it, to a life of slavery and submission, and these bonds were only the least of what was to come.

The thought awakened in her a kind of vicious anger and desperation, and – despite herself – she began to twist her hands against the ropes once more, feeling the skin break anew and blood course down her wrists. It was the blood that gave her pause. The blood that she had assumed would hinder her progress, make her work more slick and filthy. She hadn't thought it could be a help to her at all, but now she saw it. Rather than continue the fierce, jerking movements she had been using _Stupid, damn girl!_, she needed to be patient, stealthy; she needed to use the pain to her advantage. After all, up until this point, she had only been trying to break through her bonds – a fruitless, unpromising task – rather than trying to slip past them. She rubbed the heels of her hands together, feeling how the blood made them slide over one another, and drew in a deep breath. Glancing at Quinn, who still slumbered soundly beside her, she began to pull, and continued until her wrists burned in agony. Burned, yes, but had begun to slide under the ropes that bound them. She could hardly keep herself from crying out in frantic delight. Finally, something was working in her favor!

She hadn't freed herself yet, however, and so she keep pulling, kept twisting, tearing the fragile skin from her wrists and creating new rivulets of blood. To her, they were steps towards freedom. It was pain, but pain she could handle. It was nothing new. No, what worried her was the viper curled up next to her. But, so far, Quinn appeared completely oblivious to the escaping victim next to him. It was much in her favor that he slept so deeply, though it seemed strange to her. She hadn't noticed how weary he'd become in the weeks gone by. He hid it well, as he did everything else.

After what seemed an hour of quiet, strained labor, she was finally able to slip her aching fingers past the final barrier, holding back a startled gasp at how very much it hurt to lower her arms from their stiff, cramped position. Cradling them weakly on her bare chest, she surveyed the damage down with weary eyes. Her wrists were a gory mess of blood and torn flesh, but her hands themselves seemed to be working in fine order for their condition, so she didn't worry overmuch. Young Quinn would, no doubt, be able to bind them for her with no trouble at all. That is, if she ever saw him again. She shied away from the thought, not wanting to damage whatever makeshift hope she'd restored for herself. It was futile, however. As the feeling crept back into her fingers, so her sense began to creep back. What was she supposed to do now? Her hands were free, yes, but she was still locked in Quinn's cabin, on a ship populated by a crew who despised her, in the middle of the ocean. For all she knew, Tyrus could be standing guard just outside the door. Even if she did manage to get to Jack and Will, undiscovered, what plan could they form beyond that? She doubted the three of them would ever be able to defeat the entire crew of the Silver Gryphon unaided – especially when they were all half-dead to begin with. Or worse. She doubted the time Jack and Will were spending in the brig was being very kind to them. She herself was feeling the sharp pangs of hunger and thirst, the heavy weight of fatigue. It must've been increased tenfold for them, who had nothing else to occupy their minds. No, in their weakened state, they would never be able to fight their way to freedom.

But then, perhaps it was the same as with her ropes. Breaking through them was impossible, but slipping through them was…well…feasible. She smiled weakly at the thought, shifting her arms to better cover her poor, bruised bare chest, and shifted slightly, testing the result against Quinn's slumber. He appeared undisturbed by the movement, so she shifted another inch, and then another, until the tips of her toes brushed the smooth wood of the floor. It didn't take long after that for her heels to feel the floor as well, and then she was slowly putting weight on her elbows, lifting herself off the mattress. It was delicate work, and she had to keep herself from crying out more than once as a bolt of pain stabbed through her, but she kept moving. She'd forgotten just how badly she was wounded, concentrating everything on the battle for her hands, but her body was not about to let it go unnoticed now. The gash on her abdomen screamed at her with every breath, threatening to reopen into a new blossom of pain and her thigh burned white flames down her leg. But she kept moving. Slowly, slowly. Painfully, carefully slowly. And Quinn didn't move a muscle, only continued his slow, even breathing – the only encouraging thing Ryenne had to cling to at the moment. After all, it meant her movement hadn't woken him, and the less of Quinn she had to deal with, the better.

One final push and she was on her feet, sinking to her knees to crawl across the floor, as her bruised, cramped legs could no longer support her weight. She wanted nothing more than to curl herself into a ball and huddle in the corner, nursing her still-bleeding – and bloodied – wounds as best she could, but common sense kept her going, eyes frantically searching for anything that could be useful. There was no sign of Quinn's sword or pistol, but his long, black coat hung over the back of a chair, looking oddly inviting. She inched towards it, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure that Quinn still slept. He did.

The coat's wool was well-spun, but still rough as it slid over her whip-ravaged shoulders, settling heavily into place. She pulled it tight around herself, her fingers fumbling to fasten the buttons as quickly as possible. The haste somehow seemed necessary – perhaps it was her growing discomfort with her unprotected, exposed state, or perhaps it was the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that seemed to whisper how short her time was growing. She paused halfway through her task, staring grimly at the wardrobe a few paces away from where she stood. Would it be worth the risk of running short of time to remove the coat and replace it with trousers and a thin shirt that wouldn't restrict her movement quite so much? She shook her head, returning to the buttons. Time was not on her side, and she didn't have the luxury of a gamble. Quinn could wake up any moment, and –

As if conjured by the thought, there was a sudden rustling of sheets behind her, coming from the direction of the narrow bed she'd just abandoned – and from Quinn. Her fingers slipped on the buttons and her heart began to pound wildly. She didn't want to turn, didn't want to see what she knew she would find there, but there was nothing for it. She couldn't keep her back turned to an enemy. Sucking in a sharp breath, she turned.

Quinn's eyes were open, focused on her, and full of intense anger. As she watched, paralyzed, they narrowed calculatingly, and then became bereft of any emotion whatsoever as his cold mask settled back into place. He sat up fluidly, the thin coverlet seeming to melt from his lean, muscular form to pool in a tangle around his barely-concealed hips. One corner of his beautiful, cruel mouth turned up in a wry smile.

"I wondered when you'd wriggle your way out of that." He fingered the ropes still dangling from the bedpost, almost lovingly. "It actually took rather longer than I expected." He paused a moment, considering. "I'm almost disappointed."

Not sure there was anything else she could do, Ryenne returned to the buttons, latching onto any excuse to tear her eyes away from that face. "If this is some kind of game you're playing, I think it would have been proper for you to at least have given me a sporting chance."

"Oh, you know I couldn't do that, Ryenne, love." His voice sounded deceptively playful. She didn't look up, but continued to fiddle with the last button, avoiding his eyes.

"And why not?"

The bed creaked ominously, and she darted back a few paces, but still didn't meet his gaze. "Because. Every new cut and bruise I have to give you lowers your value another few pence. And I want to wring every penny I can get out of that pretty little body of yours." The sheets rustled again, louder this time. She tugged at the lapels of the coat, wishing that she didn't feel so naked, despite the fact that she was practically swimming in rough wool. Quinn chuckled.

"Ryenne. Look at me."

More from habit than from courage or defiance, she shook her head, stumbling back another step and slamming into the wall behind her. The blow took her by surprise and with considerable force, wind rushing from her lungs in a painful gasp as the rough fibers of the coat embedded themselves within her open wounds. Blood pounded in her eardrums, rendering her near-deaf. She didn't even realize Quinn had closed the distance between them until his hand gripped her jaw, forcing her chip upward. Unable to stop another whimpering gasp from escaping as she struggled to breath, she squeezed her eyes shut before he could lock her within his cold, black stare. Her back throbbed in agony.

Quinn's voice was honeyed, though she could sense the growing agitation underneath. "Ryenne, look at me." His grip tightened, his fingernails biting ruthlessly into her flesh. "_Look_ _at_ _me_, damn you."

When she refused to comply yet again, she found herself slammed against the wall once more, the impact jarring her down to the bone and sending a wave of dizzy nausea through her. Wheezing, she opened her eyes…only to find Quinn's face mere inches from her own, a scowl deepening upon his features. The shock of it made her recoil, nearly crashing into the wall again, and, before she could regain her composure, Quinn's hand encircled her throat, cutting off any protests she might have had. And, honeyed though his voice may have been, there was nothing sugared or mild about his eyes. They were almost hypnotizing in their icy fury.

His voice was cold, now, and full of bitter rage. "Ryenne, there will be no more of this nonsense. You will remove that coat and get these silly notions of escape out of your head. It. Is. Hopeless." Every word dripped scorn and irony. His grip on her throat tightened. "You will do exactly as I say, or I will turn you over to the crew, and they will help you ready for the House of Daughters – in more ways than one. Because, in the end, Ryenne - whether you will it or no - you _are_ going to the House of Daughters, and Sparrow _is_ going to die. Today, in fact."

Sheer terror and desperation kindled the last remaining spark of defiance in her.

"_NO!_" Curling her hands into claws, she lashed out at any part of him she could reach. Fortunately, or perhaps rather _unfortunately_, the first thing she connected with was his beautiful, sculpted face, her nails raking deep furrows down the line of his cheekbone.

Letting out a guttural howl of rage, he shoved her away from him and clapped a hand to his torn cheek, trying to stem the flow of crimson blood that leaked between his fingers. The floor came up fast and hard, and Ryenne barely had time to prepare herself, hitting it with a roll that barely saved her ravaged shoulders from experiencing a fresh wave of pain.

"You leave me no choice." Quinn growled, whirling to face her. "The crew will make good use of…" He trailed off, his eyes suddenly turning from vengeful to thoughtful as he studied her. She could almost see the formation of a new plan of action as his eyes began to glow anew with that familiar sadistic light. Whatever could have him grinning like that was obviously soon to become the greatest of her worries.

"What does he mean to you, Ryenne?" His whisper sent shivers down her spine. "What do you mean to him, that he would leave his young wife behind so he can rescue you? His story is almost more interesting than Sparrow's, and twice as tragic." His smile became hard. "A young man, so full of potential, who will never see his wife again… _Because of you._"

Staring up at him in horror, she shook her head, unable to speak for the terror welling up inside her chest. Not Will. He _couldn't_.

"Someone is going to bear the stripes you've just earned, Ryenne. Your disobedience condemned him and will condemn him further." Striding the few steps it took to cross the tiny cabin, Quinn flung wide the door and bellowed. "Bring me Sparrow's accomplice!"

A shouted acquiescence and the pounding of boots running across the deck. Ryenne's heart dropped into the pit of her stomach as Quinn turned that look of cold satisfaction back upon her.

"You _can't_." Even to her, the words sounded weak.

"I can, and I will." He sneered. "You will submit, Ryenne, love, or he will suffer for it. Make no mistake about that."

* * *

Jack was peeved. Of course, the fact that he had unwittingly carried the deMuerta curse with him didn't help, but – mainly – what was getting to him was Will. Will and his stupid bloody plans and his _stupid_ bloody grin. When you really got down to it, pirating was all about _attitudes_, and while he couldn't deny that the other man had it down practically to an art (aside from the grinning), he felt like a fool.

And he _hated_ feeling like a fool.

"Come on, Jack. What other plan do we have?" Will wheeled, his disheveled hair and patchy stubble doing nothing to detract from the image of madness he was starting to resemble. Jack frowned.

"Will, I'm not letting you pull off my bloody arm! The keys are nowhere in sight, and you can't guarantee that my arm could find them unaided, let alone that I'd ever get it back." He shook his head, settling back against the bars of the cell. "No. We'll wait."

"We'll never save ourselves or Ryenne by just _sitting_ here!"

"I don't think I'd do a very good job of it if I were one-armed, either, mate."

"Jack, you _idiot_!" Will fumed, rattling the cell door ineffectually. "Don't you realize…" His voice trailed off suddenly. And what Jack didn't realize, he never found out. Because there, just outside the bars, was the hulking form he had learned to dread, wearing a smile that Jack was unhappy to be on the receiving end of. Somehow, however, he maintained his composure, slouching gallantly and scowling.

"What do _you_ want?"

It had always infuriated him that even the slowest, dumbest of beasts could be so damned intimidating. It didn't help that Will had returned to grinning like an idiot. The hunger and fatigue was obviously affecting him more seriously than Jack had first thought. His eyes alighted on the ring of silver keys dangling from Tyrus's belt. Just out of reach. Perhaps it wasn't the fatigue, then. He eyed Will apprehensively and rubbed his shoulder. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Was there really no other way?

A chuckle rumbled from somewhere in the vicinity of Tyrus, and Jack started, swearing quietly. How had he failed to notice the four other men trailing behind the colossus? And had he really been considering following through with Will's plan? The situation was not looking favorable, if he was becoming _that_ desperate. He glanced at Will, whose smile had suddenly dissolved into nothingness. The plans of a lunatic extended only so far, it seemed.

One of the four detached himself from the shadows and stepped forward, pointing a finger at Will's chest. "The captain wants this one."

A knot tightened in Jack's stomach. So it was to be Will first, then? It wasn't what he had been expecting, but, then again, if he had expected any of what had happened, he wouldn't have been sitting in the brig at the moment. Still, it struck him as wrong.

At the announcement of his condemnation, Will's face had paled considerably, but he still managed to retain his composure. His face was set in a grim, but determined expression. Jack recognized the look. He'd seen it all too many times before, just before Will decided to do something stupid. It was the kind of look some would call bravery. Jack tended to skip over that label and call it idiocy. But it was Will's trademark, so it seemed, so Jack could hardly tell him to knock it off. After all, this bravery had worked out favorably once or twice before. Jack steeled himself and rose to his feet, preparing for the worst. The ship rocked ominously, causing him to stumble a few steps before he could regain his footing. It gave him an idea.

The keys jangled as Tyrus removed them from his belt, fumbling for the right one. Jack watched Will tense, saw the dire plan forming in his eyes. It was doomed to fail before it even began, he knew. Because he would be the cause of that failure. Will was going to hate him for it. For a little while, at least.

The lock clicked, and Tyrus opened the door, his four henchman lurking close behind him. In the corner of his eye, Jack saw Will begin to move. Unfortunately, Jack moved faster. Using the rocking of the ship to disguise his movements, he lurched forward, shoving Will off balance…and right into Tyrus's waiting arms. Will, being the "brave" man he was, lashed out with everything he had, keeping Tyrus and his henchmen sufficiently distracted. The keys disappeared into Jack's pocket without so much as a wayward jingle. Unfortunately, it was then that the ship decided to put truth to Jack's embellishment, lurching suddenly and forcefully. Gripping the cell door for balance, he shouted in dismay the keys flew from his shallow pocket, skittering across the brig floor into a deep pool of shadow. He had half a mind to chase after them, when he found himself being seized by three pairs of gnarled hands that seemed intent on throwing him back into his, now, unoccupied cell. Sadly enough, they succeeded.

Jack watched, in silent panic, as Will was seized by Tyrus's cohorts and dragged away, with Tyrus himself trailing close behind. No keys dangled from his belt now, but he didn't seem to notice. Nor did any of his companions. Jack eyed the pool of shadow apprehensively and rubbed his shoulder, cursing.

There really was no other way.

* * *

Will cursed as he saw the assemblage of Quinn's crew milling restlessly about the torchlit space of deck, knowing it bode ill for him. He dug in his heels, though he knew it was futile, and received an elbow in the stomach for his trouble. If his time in the brig had seemed painful and unreal, it was nothing compared to this. As he neared the torches, the nature of the situation became more and more apparent. There, surrounded by four men with daggers drawn, was Ryenne. The torchlight cast wavering shadows across her face, making her already-gaunt features look almost skeletal. The terror on her face was enough to make him stumble.

She cried out when she saw him, trying to force her way past her guards. They didn't touch her, merely waving their torches at her, and she fell back, a look of silent torture engraved in her every feature. He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but his face didn't seem to be working. The deck rocked beneath him, and he thought of Jack far below. Jack, who would face this same fate. He felt numb.

"Make your choice, Ryenne. Are you going to cooperate, or do you need a little convincing?"

Will didn't even have time to look for the owner of the voice before a hand tangled into his hair, jerking his head back. He could feel the edge of a dagger on his throat. So that's what this was, then. He was being used as a tool for persuasion. A grim smile settled itself onto his face. Let them see how well that would work.

Tearing away from the hands that held him, he caught the hilt of the dagger and threw it, heedless of whether or not it met its mark – or any mark at all, for that matter. He wouldn't have known, if it weren't for the gurgling groan that followed. Feeling hands on him once more, he set his elbow into someone's abdomen, fighting the resistance that seemed to come from all sides. For every blow he landed, another pair of hands seemed to catch hold of him. His arms were pinioned behind him, and someone was forcing him to his knees, jerking his head back at an awkward angle once more. The dagger was back at his throat, dripping with blood and pressed hard against his throat. Soon, it was all he could do to remain upright…and that didn't last for very long.

The sound of Ryenne's anguished scream brought him back to reality, tensing under the hands that held him. It took a moment for him to realize that she thought that the blood on the dagger was his own, that they'd slit his throat. He would have called out to her, reassured her, if not for the dark figure coming towards him. He could barely make out a face in the meager torchlight, but the voice was familiar enough.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Turner, that – at the moment – I'm really not looking for any assistance from you." Quinn's voice was dryly amused as he addressed Will, stepping just inside the circle of light. "However, I must caution you to halt these…_theatrics_. They're completely unnecessary, and are doing nothing for your cause." His lip curled into a sneer. "If needs be, I have no qualms about killing you now – you are, after all, only the first in a long line of tools I have at my disposal."

"What do you want with her, Quinn? She's only a _girl_!"

"Ah, she's not nearly so innocent as you make her seem." Was he just imagining it, or were those _fingernail_ marks on Quinn's left cheek? "Did you know that her idea of begging for mercy is offering herself up like a common whore?" Quinn laughed; a hollow sound. "I'm only sending her where she belongs. All I ask is a little _cooperation_."

The crew laughed, jostling Will on all sides, and he felt himself being dragged to his feet, the dagger tight against his throat. He caught a brief glimpse of Ryenne's face, tears shining on her cheeks, before he was hauled between the whipping posts and forced to his knees once more. The manacles were cold as they locked around his wrists, the rough edges biting into his skin. Someone spit on him, flecks of stinking spittle running down the side of his face. He set his jaw, preparing for what was to come. He would not be a pawn, aiding in Ryenne's demise. He wouldn't break.

Quinn's tone was laced with malice, though the words themselves sounded silky, almost serene. "Well, Ryenne? The choice is yours."

He couldn't see her, but he could almost imagine the look on Ryenne's face, feel her inner turmoil. She would break before he would, of that he was certain. He couldn't allow it. Drawing in a deep breath, he called out to her.

"Ryenne! _Don't_ –"

The first blow fell.

* * *

Jack was in dire straits.

The sounds coming from above him were certainly not helping. He was certain that, at one point, he had heard Ryenne scream. What it meant, though, he could not tell. It wouldn't be something agreeable, by any means. And he rather doubted he could count on Will's help any longer. He refused to dwell on the thought, but tried to concentrate on the situation at hand. Or the situation _of_ hands, one might say. Currently, he was seated in the cell's sole patch of moonlight, contemplating the shriveled mess of bone and sinew that was his right arm. It was the only tool he had, and the only plan he had…was Will's. The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

_I must be out of my bloody mind to be even _considering_ this…_All he had to do was pull off his arm and send it after the keys. He _only_ had to _rip off_ his _arm_. How did one go about tearing off their own appendages? He had no idea, having never tried it before. As it turned out, it was much more complicated than it was made to seem. He'd tried to break the bone against the bars, tried to snap his own wrist, tried everything he could think of. And Will's theory had proved wrong: it all bloody _hurt_.

He was about ready to give up and accept his fate, when one final, absolutely ridiculous idea came to mind. Sighing, he dragged a hand through his matted hair. He had to try it. Bracing his feet against the bars of the cell, he grasped another bar firmly in his left hand – if he was going to lose an arm, it certainly wouldn't be his sword arm – and pulled. His shoulder howled in agony as he leaned back, pushing and pulling with all his strength. If he'd had his eyes open, he would've seen the moonlit sinews of his shoulder begin to tear. Since he didn't, he was extremely surprised when his shoulder suddenly popped out of socket, throwing him back with the force of his final push. He'd pulled his own arm off. The success, however, proved too much for him.

"Oh, joy."

With that final moan, he slipped into unconsciousness.


	47. The Gods are Good

Ryenne had thought she'd experienced every kind of pain ever invented in those days alone with Quinn; all the worst kinds of suffering a person could undergo. She had been wrong. No pain she'd ever endured equaled up to the agony she was suffering at this very moment…because it wasn't her own. It was Will's, and she was its cause. What was worse, he wouldn't let her see it to an end. All she had to do was say one word, and he would be alright – the torture would cease. But he wouldn't let her say it, wouldn't let her give in, despite the release it would give him. He was too noble to let her give herself in his place, damn him. She'd pleaded with him – and with Quinn – until the tears blinded her and all she could see of the blood running down his whip-torn shoulders was a scarlet blur in the torchlight. Still, he refused, pain suffusing his voice as he bit back tortured screams.

Through all of this, Quinn said naught, except to remind her that her compliance would put an end to Will's suffering. He also reminded her that Will had a young child and a soon-to-be widow to think of – reminded her that _that_ was her fault, as well. How he'd found out about Elizabeth, she didn't know, and he certainly didn't offer an explanation. His words were getting the desired effect, and that was all that mattered to him. Ryenne was, slowly but surely, breaking down.

"_Please_, Quinn! _Stop__this_! _Please_!" For what seemed the thousandth time, she sobbed the ineffectual plea, burying her face into her hands, so as not to see Will take yet another lashing. Though he kept his proud silence, she could see he was near his breaking point, as well. He had begun to shudder in-between blows, his ragged breathing near echoing across the deck to her. He would die – or, at least, lose consciousness – if this continued much longer.

Apparently, Quinn noticed this fact, as well. One word, hardly more than a whisper, was all it took to stop the beating midstroke.

"Enough."

The whip hung limp in Tyrus's hand as he turned to face his captain, hastily wiping the sweat from his confusion-creased brow. "So soon? He's still got a spark left in him."

Quinn shook his head, a sort of disgusted disappointment flitting across his features. "No. Once he loses consciousness, he is useless. Leave go a moment, and then we will continue." He raised his hand with the mien of a benevolent monarch, gesturing lazily at Will. "Give him water."

Ryenne had to bite her lip to keep from protesting as they hauled Will to his feet, drawing a hollow groan of pain from him at the new round of abuse. Sweat glistened on his dark hair and his face was pinched and weary, but there was still a desperate wildness and a threat to his eyes. If she had not been so blinded by her tears, its intensity might have frightened her. It certainly didn't frighten Tyrus, who eyed Will with a wicked grin, fingering the whip still dangling from his hand with a malicious air. He continued to watch as Will struggled feebly against the two crewmen who held him, a third mockingly offering up a bucket of seawater to Will's tightly-clenched jaws. The deck was in an uproar, new rounds of jeering rising with every new hiss or growl of pain from their bated bear, as salt water slopped over his open wounds. Ryenne, for her part, could not watch, instead sinking to her knees and burying her face in her own, blood-crusted fingers. It was not until she heard Tyrus's voice, ripe with devious pleasure, that she could force herself to raise her eyes once more.

"A spirited one like him would do well for the House of Daughters, eh, Captain?" He chuckled maliciously. "They'd line up 'round the block for the chance to break one such as him."

Quinn's face was unreadable in the flickering torchlight. "Is that so? I was under the impression that the House of Daughters specialized in young women, not mislaid lordlings."

"Not so, Captain. A man takes whatever pleasures he can get." He leered unpleasantly, coiling the idle whip around his fist. "They'd pay a pretty penny for that one. Maybe even more than for our Caelar."

The words that reached Ryenne's ears, threats she was not even meant to hear, chilled her more than she would've thought possible.

"More than Caelar, even?" The thoughtful note in Quinn's voice was not comforting, nor was the growing hunger on Tyrus's face. Her eyes darted to Will anxiously, torn apart by the animalistic desperation on his face and in his fruitless struggling. He had no knowledge of the House of Daughters, no idea what would happen to those who were sold into service there. Ryenne did. The knowledge made it hard for her to breathe. She froze, listening as best she could past the blood pounding in her ears.

Quinn's demeanor was cool and businesslike. "Wouldn't that be a blow to Sparrow? His loyal accomplice and his little whore sentenced to a life of torture and humiliation? It's almost too good to pass up." He smiled somewhat wistfully, then shook his head. "However, I'm afraid that keeping this one and Ryenne in the same place would be a bit too foolhardy for my taste. No doubt there would be some ill-conceived manner of escape attempt. Ryenne alone should cause them no trouble they can't handle, but this one..."

Struggling to hear them over the chaos that continued to surround Will, she was unsure whether to feel insulted or afraid. It was true, Will's presence in the House of Daughters would greatly increase her hope of escape, but she would rather he have the mercy of death than share in the horrors that awaited her. That, at least, she could save him from, though, judging by Quinn's response, she doubted she would need to. All the same, she watched him carefully, waiting in apprehension for his next strike at her defenses. For his part, he merely gazed thoughtfully at Will, shaking his head once more.

"It's a fine idea, Tyrus, but perhaps too great a risk."

"Then break his spirit, Captain. Let me give him a taste of what's in store."

_No!_ Somewhere in Ryenne's mind, something howled at her. _Say something! Don't let _him _get to Will, too! _She shuddered wildly at the thought, searching for a gap between her guards, who were too busy watching Will to pay her any heed.

Quinn's voice had a touch of wry amusement to it, now. "I thought you said his spirit is what makes him so valuable."

_Say something! Save him, you coward!_

"A pretty face like his wouldn't hurt the bargain, either. Granted I don't cover it in bruises first." Ryenne recognized that slimy tone, that malevolent chuckle. She couldn't stand it.

"_No_!" The voice in her head finally found her mouth, and - guards or no - she plunged in Will's direction. Unfortunately, the guards were there, and not nearly as distracted as she had first thought. Both of her arms were caught and a dagger was at her throat before she had gone three steps. The chaos with Will ended suddenly, all eyes turning to her, as they had so many times before. A knife alone could never possibly have cut through the tension, thick as it was.

Quinn didn't even bat an eyelash at her outburst, merely turning toward her slowly, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His voice still held that touch of condescending amusement. "Let her go."

The knife bit deep into her flesh for a moment, and then it was gone, leaving her swaying unsteadily in its wake. Quinn arched an elegant eyebrow. "You have something you wish to say, Ryenne? I daresay you already know what I expect from you."

"You can't do this, Quinn! It's going too far."

"I go too far?" A wry smile found its way to Quinn's lips. "This is not a game, Ryenne. There is no cozy set of rules to protect you. You live and die at my slightest whim." His lip curled in disgust. "You say I go too far? Perhaps I do not go far enough." His eyes never left hers as he gave his next order, throwing a casual gesture over his shoulder. "Tyrus. Take him."

Ryenne only recognized the anguished howl echoing across the deck was her own from the raw burn it caused in her throat. All rational thought seemed to pour out her ears as she thrashed against the arms that held her once again, watching the matching smiles on Tyrus and Quinn's faces as the former stalked across the deck to where Will slumped wearily, unconscious of the fate that was about to befall him. There was no time left, no stalling to be done, no choice. Not-so-phantom pain surged between her thighs, warning her what she would condemn herself to, but that was nothing compared to the sheer terror rising in her chest. Not Will. They couldn't. She wouldn't allow it.

There wasn't enough air to fill her lungs, and the words she had meant to scream came out in a choked gasp.

"Quinn! _Don't_!" The words stuck in her throat. She had to force them out, shuddering at what she condemned herself to. How could she be doing this? A glance at Will's drawn face, and she knew. She had known this kind of pain before, and, though it had come close to breaking her, she had survived. More than once. Will wouldn't. It would shatter him. For that reason only, she pushed onward.

"Leave him, Quinn." Was that Will shouting? She couldn't seem to focus. "Take me."

* * *

Jack awoke to the sound of jeering on deck, muffled shouts and catcalls echoing off the damp wood of the brig. In a way, it was almost a comforting sound, as it meant either Will or Ryenne was still alive enough to be entertaining to the crew. He doubted he would have enjoyed this particular kind of entertainment, himself, but at least it meant he wasn't the only one left. He was, most likely, the only useful one left, but that was another problem entirely. The way his shoulder was paining him, he rather doubted that he, himself, would be useful much longer. And he had a rather strange headache - one along the lines of those he tended to get after his third bottle of rum. However, since there was a distinct lack of rum in his recent past, this particular ache gave him a bad feeling. Taking special care not to jostle his throbbing head, he shifted his right arm, intending to massage the stabbing pains out of his left shoulder.

It came as quite a shock when he found nothing where his left arm should be, only a patch of empty air. He suddenly found himself feeling vaguely sick. When had he misplaced his arm, and _how_? He wracked his brain...and swore. _Bloody_ Will and his _bloody_ plans. No longer concerned about the state of his head, he shot upright, casting a sweeping glance around the brig in search of his arm. It couldn't have gone far; after all, it was his bloody _arm_! It couldn't just wander away from him, unaided. At least, he _hoped_ it couldn't. He wasn't sure of the logistics of idependent appendages. Thankfully, one glance was all it took to locate his absent arm. It was in the same place he'd left it: gripping the cell bars with a white-knuckled intensity. _Literally_. The dusty patch of moonlight still illuminated his left arm, turning the sun-browned flesh into gleaming white bone.

Naturally, it was all rather unnerving for Jack, simply because there was nothing natural about it. A man shouldn't be able to sit across a... well, you couldn't really call his dingy cell a _room_, but still... he shouldn't be able to sit across any substantial amount of space from his own arm and still be able to feel the cold iron between his...bones. (Could they still be called _fingers_ in this state? He wasn't quite sure.)

Jack paused, considering. He could still feel the bar. The bar that his left hand was still gripping - detached though it was; the bar that his right hand was nowhere near. He didn't know whether he wanted to hug Will when he saw him next or punch him between the eyes. The idiotic simplicity of it all infuriated him. Where was the subtlety, the cunning? In the end, he didn't think plain, straightforward bravery was very satisfying at all, when compared to good, old-fashioned dishonest scheming. It certainly didn't have the same suavity. Bravery was for those who didn't have the wit to be subtle. Will was obviously one of those, and deserved a good beating for it. Unfortunately, Jack suspected that was exactly he was getting at that precise moment. At least, if the racket filtering through the damp wood to him was any clue.

* * *

The deck was silent and intense, all eyes fixed on Ryenne as she raised her eyes to meet Quinn's calculating gaze. Her breath was now coming in shallow bursts that sounded very much like sobs, her heartbeat quickening to a dull roar in her ears. From the corner of her eye, she could see Will life his head in weary confusion - unaware, as yet, of the reason Tyrus stood a mere few feet from his side, a cold leer darkening his burly features, and the whip still wrapped around his meaty fist. Thanks to her, he would never have to know the reason...she would stand between him and that knowledge, shield him against it. And be forced to live in it - a new Tyrus would force that terrible knowledge upon her every day. Closing her eyes, she succumbed to her terror.

"What was that you said, Ryenne, love?" Quinn's voice was light and inquisitive, mocking the tears that were now cascading down her cheeks, but his eyes held a deep threat. "You'll have to speak up if you want me to understand you."

A sob wracked Ryenne's body as she opened her mouth to speak, and no words came out.

"I'm not a patient man, Ryenne." Quinn's eyes glittered in the torchlight. "Did you wish to say something or not?" His voice became lower, very nearly a growl. She didn't need to open her eyes to see the snarling grin that was spreading across his cold features. "Or do we need to continue with our persuasion?"

A hiss of pain echoed across the deck, making her eyes snap open in dread. Tyrus now stood at Will's side, his free hand knotted in Will's dark hair, the other slowly uncoiling the whip that was twined, snakelike, around its fingers. There was no glimmer of resistance left in Will's eyes - they were glazed and dull from the pain, staring, as if dead, from his bruised and bleeding face. His lips formed a silent plea.

_Don't._

She shook her head, tears turning his sun-browned, blood-streaked features into a tawny-crimson blur. His back was to Tyrus, he could not see the silent message in those eyes; the promise of pain and shame he'd never known before - pain beyond reckoning. The knot in her throat tightened, and she bowed her head, unable to look at him in her rebellion to his self-sacrifice. It was not for him to do.

_You can't always be the one doing the saving, Will. _For a moment, she remembered the freckle-faced boy of her youth, his scrawny arms her only comfort and protection from the wide and frightening world. The memory brought fresh tears to her eyes. _You'll never know how much I loved you._

"Leave him, Quinn. It's me you want." The words were like molasses on her tongue.

"Indeed." The smug note in Quinn's voice was almost too much to bear. The hands that had remained clasped behind his back throughout the ordeal now appeared businesslike and pompous. "As I said before, I daresay you know well enough what I want from you."

She couldn't stop her arms from wrapping themselves protectively around her wool-shrouded body - it was instinct. She raised her chin in a defiance she did not feel. "Tell Tyrus to stand down."

Quinn didn't bat an eyelash at her facade, but his grin took on a harder edge as he shook his head. "We aren't playing by your terms, Ryenne. I won't remind you again."

"What are your terms, then, Captain?" Her voice didn't match her words; it shook like a leaf in a gale.

_Be strong. For Will's sake. _If she had glanced at Will, she would have noticed how his eyes were growing wild once more under their glaze of pain, but she didn't. Her eyes never left Quinn's face.

"Have you forgotten already?" Despite his unruffled demeanor, she could sense the growing irritation behind his words. He hadn't lied - he was not a patient man. "Take off the jacket, cooperate with me, and he dies a quick, relatively-painless death. Continue with this nonsense, and I hand him over to Tyrus." His lip curled back in a sneer. "I don't think I need to describe to you what_ that _entails."

_Stop wriggling, you silly girl. You're making this harder than it should be. _

"No, I don't think so." She couldn't stop herself from clinging to the rough security of the long wool coat, fiddling anxiously with the buttons. Her life or Will's. She'd already made her choice. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she spread her arms wide, presenting herself as the sacrifice. "Take it."

Quinn's sinister chuckle was probably the most discomforting thing she could possibly hear at that moment. "Oh no, Ryenne. You misunderstand." He motioned for her guards to step away from her, which they promptly did. She suddenly felt extremely exposed and vulnerable - though not nearly as much so as she would soon be, she knew. "No one is going to aid you in this. You will take that coat off of yourself."

The desire to blush furiously was quickly quelled by the fact that all the blood had drained from her face, leaving her feeling light-headed and anxious. It was the most humiliation he could give her, not even allowing her the dignity of a struggle. And he knew it full well. The smirk on his face said as much. She lowered her arms, feeling very helpless, and began to fiddle with the coat's large buttons once more, unable to bring herself to undo them. Her freedom would not be torn from her as it had been before. No, she was being forced to offer it up like a gift. The torches suddenly seemed too bright, too revealing. The darkness didn't envelope her as she wished it would, and the eyes of the crew seemed to burn into her from every angle. At her hesitation, the smirk began to fade from Quinn's austere features.

"Take off the coat."

Rationality seemed to be slipping through her fingers; she couldn't grasp his words. It all seemed so surreal. "You can't be serious."

"I don't bluff." The eerie reflections of torchlight made his eyes look like shards of obsidian. "And you are running out of time. You don't seem to be comprehending the gravity of this situation, Ryenne, love. No matter what you do, I will have my way. I simply offer you a chance to be merciful to your dear companion, as there will be none for you.

"You see, I can't afford to have you earn yourself another few injuries - you've lost enough worth as it is. Two days' time is not sufficient to heal the wounds you already have, and the price you'll fetch is hardly worth my journey as it is. The only reason I persist is because of the immense satisfaction it will give me to see you sold into that place." His smirk returned with a new emphasis. "If you wish to put up a fight, go ahead. Mr. Turner's sale will compensate for the profit I'd lose with yours. And I'm certain Tyrus would not be averse to assisting me in subduing Mr. Turner sufficiently for the sale to take place." He took a few steps toward her, the torchlight sill dancing in his eyes. "Your cooperation saves him from that particular fate, but nothing can save you. I suggest you take off the coat, before I'm forced to do something rash."

She couldn't speak, her hand fixed on the top button of the coat - her only shield; Will's condemnation. She suddenly felt very bewildered and small. Two days? Was that all the freedom she had left? It couldn't be. Could it? Her eyes roamed the deck helplessly, searching for an anchor to cling to. Will's face swam before in the torchlight, beaten but resigned. He was ready to go to death and beyond for her, despite the fact that he'd left behind a young wife, an unborn child... despite the fact that he didn't known what 'beyond' entailed...

Her hand slipped on the first button, shaking with fear as she was, but the others came more easily. With every button, every new inch of battered flesh she exposed, she became more detached, more empty, more resigned. Will had begun his protests anew - though he could hardly stand from the effort it took him to roar at her - but she hardly heard him, nor did she look to see the rage mingled with anguish on his face. Here eyes were locked with Quinn's - her amber gaze, flat and emotionless, with his onyx, rapt and exultant. Even the scrape of rough wool sliding off her raw shoulders did nothing to draw her out of her trance, the coat falling, forsaken, around her bare feet. She didn't notice when one of her guards stooped to gather up the discarded bundle, didn't hear the jeers and snickers of the crew drowning out Will's hoarse shouts, didn't see him collapse to the deck when his captors - too focused on the situation at hand to bother with a man so weakened and near-death - abruptly released him. She was blind to everything except that onyx stare, deaf to everything but that cultured baritone. She didn't even tremble when the cold night air brushed over her bare skin. She already felt cold inside, what more could the wind do? The only traces of warmth left in her were the hot tears that rolled down her cheeks, burning as they went.

Quinn's eyes never left hers as he accepted the bundled coat from her guard, shrugging it on deftly and smoothing the sleeves, tugging the cuffs into place, brushing off a nonexistent speck of dirt. His eyes never left hers as he raised his arm and signaled discreetly to Tyrus, never left hers as he gave his next order.

"Come here, Ryenne."

* * *

Lost in thought, it took Jack a moment to realize that the atmosphere of the ship had abruptly changed. Where the raucous clamor of Quinn's erstwhile crew had previously made for steady background noise, there was now an ominous silence from above deck. And in Jack's experience, any sudden silence was a bad silence, a fact exemplified many times by their past and current situations, and many times amplified by what it boded for them.

Realizing that speed on his part was now key, Jack crossed the cell and surveyed his severed appendage with some unease. Depending on where the moonlight struck, it showed various stages of decay, ranging from the pearly bone of the knuckles to the rot spreading up towards the elbow. However, now was not the time to be squeamish, and, with a deep breath, he grasped his own only most-whole forearm and tugged _hard_. It thankfully did not hurt, but Jack would have been hard-pressed to name a sensation stranger than the one he was currently experiencing: his hand had released its death grip on the bar, and, while holding it quite apart from his body (at arm's length, he supposed wryly), if he closed his eyes he was prepared to swear that it was still attached. It was more than a little unbalancing, but did not detract from his thankfulness that the initial pain seemed to have passed.

Now all he had to do was find out how to make it move independently, if it even could. Pressing himself up against he bars on the side he was certain the keys had slid, he gingerly set the arm down as far down outside the cell as he could reach...and then stood and stared at it. Now what? _Move, _he thought at it irritably. Now so much as a finger twitched. Jack screwed his eyes shut, feeling it with his mind, imagining the sensation of of curling his fingers into a fist. His other hand obliged immediately, which was no help at all. he tried again, and once more. Flexing mental muscles was more difficult than he had expected, and he felt his headache intensify. But he couldn't see any other way.

After a few minutes' work, however, success struck. With his eyes closed, he had perfected the feeling of all ten fingers opening and closing into fists. Continuing the exercise, he slowly opened one eye, viewing his detached arm first with trepidation, and then with elation. It was moving, the fingers clenching themselves into a fist exactly as he wanted. He had barely enough time to dwell properly on how much this pleased him, however, because just then the harsh sound of shouting from above split the silence.

Kneeling by the bars, Jack saw that in the midst of his experimentation, his arm had crept a few inches forward. Quickly he resumed the mental opening and closing of his left hand, sometimes encouraging it with his right. Thought the pain had receded to a far more manageable, almost negligible level, it was still tasking work. By the time he had managed to move it six feet (trying to ignore the dragging noise it made as it crept along, and wondering how many slivers he'd have from the rough wood of the floor by the time he was done), sweat was trickling down his temples and the muscles in his neck felt so tense that with any more pressure, they would surely snap.

By ten feet, it was one inch at a time, and Jack had forgotten all about the peculiarity of his situation in his attempt not to pass out. Finally, however, his arm reached the corner. Jack had to lean against the bars of the cell and rest for a moment before beginning the ordeal of actually finding the keys. There was no light on that side of the brig; he closed his eyes and began to cast about slowly for his freedom.

As he went, he tried to distract himself from the pain by imagining what was going on above. Strangely enough, the last bout of shouting he had heard had sounded like Will, and if Will was still well enough to make that much noise...perhaps there was some hope after all. But after the desperate shouting had ceased, there had been another silence, and then an uproar that had had almost the sound of celebration...

Jack sat bolt upright as he felt his hand bump against something in the corner. He scrabbled around, trying to feel what it was. Smooth sides...and a slope down to a thinner bit at the end...

"Damn," he said with some feeling. It was a bottle, and fond as he was of rum, it wasn't quite what he was after. Perhaps as lubricant for his headache, though...he gave it a hopeful sort of shove, as best he could, but it seemed to have gone in the wrong direction. Oh well. It was probably empty anyway. However, as it rolled he heard it collide with something that gave a metallic _clink._

The keys.

The ship gave a sudden lurch, Jack heard them sliding...and he almost sang as they came to a stop against his arm. Rapidly maneuvering his hand around, he slid his pinkie into the large ring, as yet unseen, and was just beginning the harrowing task of hauling back his prize when the ship lurched once more. The stray bottle began rolling, fetching up within the feeble range of the torch, right at the bars of his cell.

It was full.

The gods were good.

The gods were _very_ good.


	48. Quinn

Will saw it all as if in slow motion. The world seemed to have stopped; his throat worked convulsively as screams of protest that hadn't even been formulated yet were choked into silence. The coat fell from Ryenne's brittle frame, slipping to the deck softly as a sigh. Will seemed to fall with it as the exhaustion and pain triumphed over his depleted stores of defiance. He couldn't even command his head to lift, viewing the scene through half-closed eyes, cheek pressed to the ridged wood beneath him.

The crew let out an enormous roar of approval as Ryenne's bare feet moved towards Quinn's booted ones. To Will, the sound was muffled, heard as if from a very great distance. _Stop_, he tried to tell her. _Don't take another step._ The only sound he managed was a quiet moan of defeat. No one tried to move him, for which he was grateful; perhaps he could gather his strength from down here, do something, anything to change the course of Ryenne's feet as she took another step. The brute, Tyrus, was undoubtedly enjoying enjoying the show too much to care about keeping his charge upright.

Try as he might, however, Will couldn't seem to gather any sort of strength at all. A cool numbness was spreading from his back to his limbs as his body went into long-awaited shock, making them far too heavy for even a strong man to lift, surely...as if they were filling with lead...and now the numbness was infiltrating his head, blurring the edges of his vision and causing him to see strange things, because suddenly there was someone else on deck, someone who had emerged from the forecastle entrance to below decks and was now standing behind the rest of the crew, partly in shadow and just out of sight, watching...

Will had to be honest with himself; it looked like Jack.

He blinked blearily, _fighting_ to remain conscious, and looked closer. If it was a hallucination, it was a good one. But something was wrong. Missing. From his horizontal perspective, it took Will a long moment to grasp what he was seeing.

Jack had only one arm.

The sight acted as a figurative bucket of ice water on Will's awareness. This was not a hallucination; Jack had somehow gotten free of the cell, and he had to help him. He had to _do_ something. He didn't stop to consider the hopelessness of their outnumbered position, didn't even stop to wonder at _what_ to do. If there was ever a time to improvise, it was now.

But first he had to make sure he was even _able_ to help when Jack acted.

He concentrated on his breathing, hearing it become harsh as he drove the numbness and bleariness back with every scrap of willpower he had left, claiming consciousness with all his might. It was difficult; with the loss of the numbness the pain came streaking back with a vengeance that was breathtaking. He closed his eyes and waited it out. When it had receded just enough, Will moved his head the slightest bit to give himself a better view of the deck.

Ryenne had reached Quinn, there was not doubt about that. The crew was still roaring, and Will felt a moment of surprise and confusion. Had it only been seconds since he had spotted Jack on the fringes of the crowd? But there was something different about the sound, as if the men weren't concentrating on the naked female in their midst at all. The sound had a rougher, wilder edge to it.

It was fear.

Raw, unadulterated fear.

Levering himself up onto his elbows, Will was momentarily taken aback when no blows landed on him from above. He couldn't see what was going on; the deck was suddenly utter pandemonium as lights were extinguished and men streamed past him, some swinging themselves up into the rigging or even going so far as to throw themselves overboard. _What was going on?_

He had to stand up all the way, somehow. There was a solitary glass lantern hanging from the mast, above him to his left. He aimed for it, bracing his back against the wood and forcing his legs to support his weight. His lash wounds screamed in protest and his legs wobbled uncertainly as the blood rushed from his head, but when his vision cleared he saw, finally, what had caused the panic.

Once again, it was Jack.

He had moved out of the shadows into the moonlight flooding the deck, and was now standing quite still, watching the chaos swirling around him with what Will was sure would have been a grim expression, if his skull had been capable of showing any sort of expression at all. The sight held no terror for Will, but he could understand the reactions of the men around him: from the yellowed eyes in deep sockets to the rictus grin of the teeth (many of them gold) and the white bone protruding from the rotted flesh of Jack's left shoulder, the scene was a frightening one.

Will was not the only one who remained unaffected, though. Quinn, who had gone stock-still when Jack had first revealed himself, had remained still through the deserting of his crew and now had a pistol pressed into the small of Ryenne's back. He was moving away from Jack towards Will, who quickly edged himself into the shadows on the other side of the mast. He saw Jack acknowledge his presence with the smallest of nods, and then speculatively eye the lamp swaying with the rocking of the ship before he ducked out of sight. What was he planning?

Ryenne seemed dead to any sort of reaction at all; eyes blank, she allowed Quinn to push her roughly to her knees on the deck, one of his hands proprietarily resting on her shoulder...and the other holding the gun that was aimed at her head. Will averted his eyes, thinking desperately.

"So. The great Jack Sparrow," Quinn said coldly, voice perfectly level.

Will couldn't help but feel a certain amount of admiration for the man; mythical monsters suddenly appeared on the deck of his ship and he didn't even bat an eye. Granted, it was only _one_ mythical monster, but his composure and presence of mind were impressive nonetheless.

From the soft sound of steady footfalls, Will could only guess that Jack was slowly approaching Quinn. He hadn't said a word yet.

"I heard that legend once, long ago. I'm surprised to see that it had any truth to it at all," Quinn said calmly. "Tell me, Jack Sparrow," he continued, and Will peered around the mast in time to see him raise the gun to point at the middle of Jack's chest. "Will you bleed, if I shoot now?"

Jack spoke for the first time. "No," he said quietly, still moving forward.

There was a pause, and then...

"She will," Quinn said gently, maliciously.

The threat was implicit, and Jack's footfalls stopped. The gun was back at Ryenne's head. Will didn't need to look to see that. There had to be _something_ he could do! Movement from the corner of his eye suddenly caught his attention, though, and a hulking shadow lunged around the mast to his right.

He had forgotten about Tyrus.

Wondering whether or not his body would be capable of handling this, Will silently threw himself into a somersault. Tyrus's charge missed him by inches, and he not so much sprang as staggered upright, blinking away the darkness once more threatening the edges of his vision. Tyrus regained his footing surprisingly swiftly for such a large man, and from the glint of metal in his hand Will was certain he had a knife.

Backing up against the mast as Tyrus lunged once more, he ducked, hearing the blade _thud_ into the wood where his head had been. In the moment it took the larger man to free the knife, Will instinctively seized the nearest thing to hand, the lantern from its hook on the mast, and swung it with all his might into Tyrus's head.

Later, Will would wonder whether it was merely good fortune that he swung upwards instead of around, or if he had somehow sensed that the other man would turn his head to see what was coming. He would decide on a combination of the two, but for the moment all he could feel was an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards whatever gods were watching that the glass lantern caught Tyrus in the face, and that it was Tyrus, not him, that was now writhing on the deck with two punctured eyes, the blood and gore streaming down his cheeks like black tears in the moonlight.

Will had retrieved the knife from the deck where it had fallen and was waiting for the horrific shaking in his legs to subside when the first gunshot shattered the air.

* * *

The deck seemed to sway in a thousand directions under Ryenne's knees, the only anchor the sharp pressure of Quinn's grip on her shoulder. 

He was shaking.

She wasn't aware of having closed her eyes, yet her vision seemed to pulsate, following the unsteady rhythm of her heartbeat, from the erratic flicker of torchlight...to blackness...and back. She wished it would steady, as the skeletal monster lurking just beyond the circle of light seemed to jump closer with every wave of darkness. It seemed familiar somehow, like an old nightmare returned to plague her in her waking hours. Her thoughts were like a child's puzzle pieces, hastily assembled into grotesque parodies of the truth they should have revealed. She leaned back into the pressure of Quinn's protective grip. Surely he would save her from this horror - dear Quinn, who had taken her under his wing when she would have died on the wintry streets of Oxford. Sweet Quinn, who had always been so gentle, so kind. Her vision faded, and when it returned so did the hideous visage before her, now even closer than before. Quinn's voice reached her ears as if in a dream, the terror suffusing it like nothing she had ever heard from him.

"Stay where you are, Sparrow."

Sparrow? The thing before her looked nothing like a sparrow. Was Quinn confused? His hand continued to shake in its painful grip. She wanted to tell him to let go, that he was hurting her. She was sure he didn't mean to hurt her. He just sounded so very frightened.

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

Why was she kneeling when she should be comforting him? Why were they waiting here, while the terrible monster came ever closer? Run, she wanted to tell him, run. But her voice wouldn't obey her. Brave Quinn, that he would face such danger head-on.

A sound like thunder suddenly rang in her ears once, and then again, sending her vision reeling back into darkness, and she felt herself being thrown forward. Her head snapped backwards, then hit the deck as she landed heavily on her stomach.

"STAY AWAY!"

Quinn, Quinn, where was Quinn? Was he to let this monster have her? No longer was there his anchor to hold her steady. Her vision throbbed, and a voice sounded in her ear.

"Ryenne!?" The voice was rich, familiar. "Ryenne, love, say something!"

Quinn?

A hand grasped her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. A wave of pain washed through her as her shoulders pressed against the deck. Ah, but she hurt! Why did it hurt so much? Her vision wasn't coming back, but her hearing remained intact. She could hear voices. Quinn's voice, shouting. The sound of footsteps, a gasp, a thud. And above it all, the new voice, persistent, urgent.

"_RYENNE!?_"

The darkness cleared for a short moment, but it was long enough for terror to flood her once more. The voice - the skeletal creature - hovering over her, touching her. She cast about, frantically searching for her anchor... and found it, blood trickling from the corner of Quinn's mouth to stain the deck where he had fallen. This time, her voice complied immediately, a scream echoing from the depths of her being.

"_QUINN!_"

Suddenly, the voice left her. She heard it move away, snatches of sound reaching her through her newfound sobs. Another voice joined it - more raspy than the first, both harried and tense. Their words made no sense, reaching her ears as meaningless sound.

"Will, where's my bloody arm?"

"I think you dropped it over there."

"Oh, right."

A moment of silence.

"Look, I can't really carry her in this state. Do you think...?"

"I'll try."

Footsteps. The shatter of glass. A dull roar.

"Jack! The compass!"

"Where?'

"His coat pocket."

The last thing she saw as darkness gripped her vision was the merry dance of flames.

* * *

"Six weeks! _Six bloody weeks_ since Jack left the Pearl, and we've not seen hide nor hair of him since!" Barlowe muttered disconsolately into his tankard and glanced sideways at his drinking cohort, who seemed to be in a similar state of affairs. 

"It's all the fault of that damn girl!" Gibbs growled, drinking deeply and scowling. "I've always told Jack bringing women aboard was bad luck, and now look what's happened!"

"That's hardly fair, Gibbs, mate. I don't think she got herself kidnapped on purpose…and, even if she did, 'twas Jack's choice to go after her."

Gibbs pondered this a long moment, the dubious scowl never leaving his face. "Jack hasn't been himself since that young chit came aboard. It's almost like he was…"

"Was what?"

The first mate shook his head, attempting to clear the rum's fog. "No, it isn't possible. It's Jack, and Jack hasn't changed. He'll do anything to win a woman." He nodded to himself. "Yes. She's just another woman. That's all it is, then."

"What is?"

"Jack and Ryenne – that damn girl, blast her. They're certainly not…" he trailed off hopelessly, his own words not enough to fool even himself.

Barlowe turned, slamming his tankard down on the filthy counter and glaring muzzily at Gibbs. "Look, mate. I don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about!"

"Nothing, mate. Nothing."

"Doesn't bloody sound like nothing." For lack of anything better to do, he returned to staring blankly at the muddy amber liquid in his mug and sulking.

"It doesn't bloody matter anyway. Jack's gone, and we ain't got any way to find him." Gibbs turned to his shipmate. "All hells be damned, Barlowe, I don't know what to do."

"Aye. Jack's boots will be bloody hard to fill."

He frowned. "I don't want to _fill_ Jack's boots, mate. I want to _find_ them." He paused a moment. "Er…him, I mean."

They both lapsed into an awkward sort of silence that only drunken pirates can make so expressive, swilling the rum around in their rusty, half-empty tankards and pondering the loss of their captain. This silence lasted a space of about four seconds before it was rudely interrupted by the gurgling cackle of Tortuga's local madman, Old Tom.

"Pardon us, my lads, but did we hear you say _Jack Sparrow_?"

Hardened seaman though he might have been, Barlowe could never keep himself from recoiling from the wizened visage that now peered curiously over his shoulder. Old Tom's frazzled white hair poked out from underneath a battered tricorn hat, partially covering a face that was shriveled as an old prune. No patch covered the empty socket where Tom's left eye should have been, and his drooping mustache didn't hide the fact that only four or five of his mossy brown teeth remained. His remaining eye, a misty, blood-shot blue, darted about wildly as he laughed. It was the eyes – or eye – more than anything that made Barlowe recoil.

As for Gibbs, his demeanor hadn't changed at all, except for a slight tang of annoyance in his tone. Barlowe had always admired Gibbs' unshakeable stoic demeanor – perhaps it was because the first mate was far better at holding his liquor.

"Aye, you did. What of it?"

Tom tugged compulsively on the brim of his threadbare hat, cackling once again. "Didn't you hear, lads? Sparrow's back!" He did a shambling sort of jig and bared his broken teeth at them. "Back and half-dead for the bargain! He he he!"

Gibbs leapt to his feet, staggering slightly. Perhaps he was just better at _hiding_ his liquor, rather than holding. Grabbing Old Tom by the shoulders, he shook him thoroughly.

"Is this the truth? Speak, man! And if you be lying…!"

"Mercy, mercy!" Tom whined, pulling himself free. "It's the truth, every word. We saw him ourselves! Was washed ashore – not three days ago – him in a longboat with a young bit of skirt and a gent dressed in rags! We saw it, we did!"

"Bit of skirt?" Barlowe repeated, confused.

"Ryenne." Gibbs replied shortly. "And Will." He caught hold of Tom's ragged collar once more, perhaps more violently than necessary. "Where is he now, you scoundrel!?"

The old pirate snickered mischievously, waggling a crooked finger under Gibb's nose and grinning wryly. "Ah. We can't be telling ye that – all wise pirates know Jack Sparrow's not to be disturbed when he's in Room 13."


	49. Return to Tortuga

_I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak  
I'd share with you – could I only speak -  
just how much this hurts me..._  
- "...But Home in Nowhere" by AFI

Quinn clutched his satchel to his chest nervously as he followed Barlowe up the rickety staircase that separated the common room of Lee's Tavern from the thirteen shabby rooms set aside for "short-term lodgers." The situation at hand all seemed very impossible. he would have thought he was dreaming, had he not pinched himself several times already. Captain Jack and Ryenne? Alive? Escaped, all on their own? (Excepting that they'd had Mr. Turner with them, of course.) It defied all odds. However, Captain Jack had never been one to disappoint, terrible odds or no.

Still, it was quite amazing.

"Now, lad," Barlowe began bracingly, pausing outside the door of Room Number 13. "You've...ah...really got quite a bit of work ahead of you, you realize? Not to put pressure on, but...it's not like anything you've ever dealt with before. I know you're a talented lad, but this is...well, it's..."

Quinn waited for him to finish, nonplussed.

"...very bad." Even to his ears, the words fell lame.

"Just let me see what I can do, then." He said quietly, steeling himself for whatever he might find upon entering.

Barlowe opened the door.

The first thing Quinn's eyes alighted on was Captain Jack, and, at first glance, he appeared to be in fine condition, if a little malnourished and careworn. It took a second glance to reveal the truth. Quinn almost dropped his satchel in shock.

Captain Jack only had one arm.

Well, that wasn't quite true. He did have two, it was just that only one was...attached. The other was slung carelessly across his lap, and seemed to be - much to Quinn's disbelief - impatiently drumming its fingers on his thigh. He didn't look up as Quinn entered, his face buried disconsolently in his remaining hand, elbow propped on his knee. The shadows created by the dim lamplight made his empty shoulder socket look positively ghastly. For a moment, Quinn wished he'd taken Barlowe's warnings more seriously and brought along more than just his beaten satchel. Much more. Because Barlowe was right - he hadn't dealt with anything of this sort before. Broken arms he'd dealt with, torn muscles...but this? He didn't think anyone had ever dealt with this. Who could honestly say they'd been woken in the middle of the night, called to come reattach a severed appendage _that still appeared to be moving_? No one, that's who. This sort of thing was off the map. How could he be expected to handle this? What was he supposed to do?

Quinn shook his head, banishing the thought. He knew he was young, but he was a fairly advanced healer, and a resourceful one, at that. He would figure something out. Eventually.

"Weren't anticipating this, were you, lad?" Jack's voice was rough with fatigue, and he chuckled humorlessly, but did not raise his head.

Nervously shuffling a few steps further into the room, Quinn attempted to ease his voice into something that resembled a calm and reassuring tone. He couldn't seem to work his way above a whisper. "Don't worry, Captain. I can fix this."

Now Jack _did _raise his head, his bloodshot eyes unreadable in the murky, yellow light. "Not me, boy. Take care of Will first." He gestured vaguely in the direction Quinn wasn't facing, his expression becoming grimmer, if that was even possible.

Quinn didn't want to turn around, didn't want to see what could make Jack's face pale like that. But he did. It was much worse than he'd suspected.

Will lay motionless on the narrow bed, eyes shut and chest heaving with the effort it took to keep breathing. His hair was lank, pasted to his bloodless face with sweat from the fever that continued to wrack his ravaged body. His limbs were trembling in pain, hollow moans rising from somewhere deep within.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Quinn fought the urge to be sick as he turned down the blankets and surveyed the rest of the damage. Long, angry lash wounds curved around Will's now-very-visible ribcage, blood and pus oozing from gashes that were partly crusted over by dirt and salt. Bedsheets that must have been white at some point were now stained with deep crimson splotches, framing Will in a patch of red. A shallow knife wound slashed across his throat and various cuts and bruises colored his otherwise ghostly-pale features. His chest quivered with the painful struggle to breath. Quinn closed his eyes in horror, knowing the image would already have burned itself permanently into his mind.

But that, still, was not the worst. Quinn knew better than to think it was. Taking a deep breath, he reopened his eyes and rested them on Barlowe and Gibbs, who had appeared beside him.

"I need you to roll him over, sirs. As gently as you can."

At their hesitation, he reached out to indicate on of the gashes tracing Will's ribcage, hating what he knew they meant. "These are from the scourge. The worst injuries will be on his back. I need to tend to them first."

When they hesitated still, revulsion and dismay apparent in their eyes, it was Captain Jack's voice that sounded across the cabin, though he hardly spoke more than a whisper.

"Do it."

Quinn knelt and opened his satchel as they moved to obey, unable to watch Will's face contort with pain, watch his eyes roll back into his head, see Gibbs' and Barlowe's hands turn sticky with blood, as his own soon would. Instead, he riffled through his herbs, searching for something to clean the wounds with, something to draw out the infection, something to bring down the fever. Will's moans of pain only spurred him on.

"I need two large bowls of water - one hot, one cold. And I need clean linens." He shouted his orders to no one in particular, and heard footsteps rushing to obey. He couldn't look at Will just yet. His stomach was still roiling nastily, and he didn't want to become sick when he needed nothing more than to remain calm and focused.

It was then, with his head bowed low over his tools, that the thought came to him, froze him.

If Will was in this condition, how must Ryenne be? He wracked his brain, struggling to remember the words Barlowe had spoken upon waking him. Had he even mentioned Ryenne? He couldn't remember. Surely Ryenne hadn't...

He raised his head slowly, lifting his eyes to meet Captain Jack's, which had, apparently, been focused on him for some time. Haunted, anguished eyes. He couldn't bring himself to think on what thoes eyes might be telling him.

"Captain Jack..."

The careworn eyes searched his, the only response.

"...is Miss Caelar..." he couldn't vocalize it, didn't want to acknowledge the idea. "...is she...?"

Captain Jack sighed, then shook his head, rubbing his face wearily. "She's in the other room, lad. Will is your greatest concern, at the moment."

An icy fist closed over Quinn's chest, squeezing his lungs into inaction.

"She's not - "

"She's fine, lad. It's Will I'm worried about," he scrubbed a hand through his hair, as though suddenly restless. "and who you should be worrying about."

Any relief Quinn might have had was dampened by his captain's admonishment, but the icy fist's hold lessened. Footsteps sounded behind him; his orders obeyed, the bowls and the linens provided. He couldn't put it off any longer. Drawing in a long, slow, steadying breath, he raised his eyes to Will's motionless form once more.

* * *

The drafty cold of the corridor outside Will's bedchamber was just the thing Jack needed to clear his roiling, over-wracked mind, and he relished the feeling against his skin, leaning his forehead against the wall for support. Every part of him ached. he was dog-tired and his stomach was roaring with hunger inside him. His throat felt as though it would tear itself apart with thirst. he knew why, of course. Immortality had its prices. The Aztec coin felt heavy in his pocket, reminding him that this was the price he was paying for his little schemes. had his left arm still been attached, he would have stared down at the thick scar crossing its palm, a lingering reminder of his last encounter with Barbossa, and with the curse. As it was not, he settled for a deep sigh. He knew how to reverse the curse this time, yes, but for the moment, it was a major inconvenience. He hadn't even bothered trying to eat or drink since they'd arrived in Tortuga. He knew what good that would do.

Despite the discomfort he himself was feeling, he found himself wishing that he'd had the opportunity to give Will a coin, as well. Or, at least, that he'd have been taken in Will's place. Though he'd seen a fair many battle wounds in his time, Jack still shuddered to think of the condition Will was in. He'd never seen a man so torn by the lash; he was surprised that Will still clung to life. His skin had been shredded like a piece of fine cloth, the bone of his ribs exposed in one or two places. If he survived, he would be gruesomely scarred, at the very least. Jack had every faith in young Quinn's ability to work the healing magics, but that faith didn't extend to Will's chance for recovery. His every breath was a miracle now.

It had been too much for Jack to watch Quinn's attempts at cleaning the wounds. The boy's hands had been covered in sticky, red blood all too quickly, and the room had been heavy with its scent - despite the heavy fumes of incense Quinn was using to cover it up - thick with the heat of Will's fever and the steaming water Quinn was using to mix his foul-smelling poultices. All too much for Jack. Cowardly as it seemed, he'd had to escape. And so, he'd come here, out of the oppressive heat and silence, into the drafty corridor, with the muffled noises of the tavern below filling his ears. He wished he could join those men in a pint of good rum, but the pain in his shoulder reminded him, once again, why it was so important for him to remain hidden away.

He supposed he should be more concerned with the fact that he was only sporting one arm at the moment, but somehow, he wasn't. He could stand the loss of his left arm, if it only meant that Will would live. And Ryenne...

Jack raised his head to peer at the next door down the corridor, one with a fading 12 painted crookedly on it, that was hiding Ryenne from him. Perhaps it was best not to think of her at the moment. Oh, she _seemed_ healthy enough, and her condition was stable, but it was hardly a good state to be in. She appeared only to be a shell with no soul inside. Since the moment they'd abandoned the flaming wreckage of the _Silver Gryphon_, she'd responded to nothing and no one - silent, unmoving, her eyes blank and staring. It was as though she had died. He would have believed it to be so, if not for the fact that he'd spent hours listening to her shallow, even breathing. What else was there to do while floating in a longboat towards the unknown? It was lucky for them that the _Gryphon_ had been anchored so close to Tortuga. Two days in the shabby boat had brought them close enough that they could make their way into shore. But calling it luck was almost insulting. It had been providence. Now, if it would only hold long enough for them all to get safely back to Port Royale, for Will to return to his young wife...

The shrieking of rusty hinges tugged him from his thoughts, and he glanced up at the window at the far end of the corridor, where pale morning light was spilling in from the streets outside. Had so many hours passed? How long had he been standing here?

"Captain?" The weary tone of young Quinn's voice was not heartening. Jack could not bring himself to meet the boy's eyes. Instead, he closed his own, pressing his forehead against the rough wood of the doorjamb.

"Yes, lad?" The darkness behind his own eyes was almost as unbearable as watching the boy cleaning the blood from his hands, which he would most certainly be doing. He was beginning to see stars. "How is he?"

"Weak." The boy's voice sounded weak, yet there was a sudden note of satisfaction to it. "But he will live."

Jack turned his head just enough to meet Quinn's eyes, which were sparkling with weary triumph, and could not contain the incredulous grin that was spreading across his face.

"The fever has broken, and I've got his wounds cleaned and bandaged. He's lost a lot of blood, and he needs rest, but he will live."

Had the boy's arms not still been covered in blood up to the elbow, Jack would have hugged him in relief and gratitude. As they were, he settled for a grateful smile. The boy eyed his empty shoulder socket disconcertedly, but managed a crooked smile in return. Which faded all too quickly into new worry. Jack's heart dropped into his stomach, knowing what the boy's next words would be. He was not disappointed.

"Sir...may I se Ry...er...Miss Caelar?"

Jack wanted to say no, wanted to spare the boy - who seemed so very fond of Ryenne - the sight of her in her present comatose state, but he found himself nodding solemnly and leading the short distance to Ryenne's present chamber. he didn't bother to knock; he knew there wouldn't be an answer.

She was just as he'd left her, curled on her side, her back to the doorway. Her arms were hugged close to her chest, as though she was trying to protect herself from some unseen enemy. What that could be, he didn't know. Or perhaps, didn't want to know. He still couldn't forget the terror in her eyes when she'd seen him in his cursed form; it had torn a piece of his soul in two to see it.

Her bare feet were filthy and streaked with blood. He had no idea where it had come from, not having made any attempt to remove the long, black coat that was her only covering. Jack recognized that coat, knew who it belonged to. It seemed almost wrong to leave her clothed in that viper's belongings, but he didn't have the heart to take it from her. He had no idea how she would react if he tried. Something in her had broken in those last moments aboard the Gryphon; she seemed to have lost all reason whatsoever, calling out to that...that monster for help... The shock was, no doubt, what was causing her current behavior. It lingered too near to madness for comfort.

If young Quinn was upset by her appearance or lack of reaction to his presence, he didn't show it, instead composing himself with the peaceful, reassuring grace that only a trained healer could, and kneeling soundlessly at her bedside. His voice was a soft murmur, too low for Jack to hear, but he was able to catch the meaning behind it, if not the exact words. Ryenne gave no response, but Quinn seemed to have come to some sort of decision. He was on his feet once more before Jack could even open his mouth to speak.

"Captain, I'll have to ask you to step outside."

Jack knew the reason perfectly well, but he couldn't help asking.

"Because, sir, I can't examine her properly with this coat on, and..." A blush may have colored the boy's cheeks, but his voice was firm and steady. "There's no need for you to bear witness to that, sir."

Jack could feel the heat coloring his own cheeks, as well, though it seemed he should hardly be a stranger to Ryenne's unclothed figure by now. He opened his mouth, trying to defend his presence. He didn't know if he could bear to be away from her again, now that he was here.

"Surely I can be of _some_ help - "

"I'm afraid not, sir, what with your physical...incapabilities."

_You only have one arm. You're completely useless. _Jack understood plainly enough, but he couldn't help feeling stung. With a brisk nod, he backed out the door, casting one final despairing glance in Ryenne's direction. He dearly hoped Quinn was able to heal the wounds within as well as he healed the wounds without. He suspected it would be that kind of healing Ryenne needed the most.

* * *

Ryenne never thought she'd see this place again – had hoped she wouldn't. And yet, here she was. The ground was cold and hard beneath her feet, the mist like ice as it swirled against her bare legs. It was just as lonely and oppressive as she remembered it to be. But there was no doorway this time, no whispering voice to guide her. Just the churning, unforgiving gray fog. She wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed.

* * *

The corridor was no longer a comfort for Jack. The whistle of air through the cracked windowpane at the end of the hall only annoyed him. The jeers of the men below drummed in his ears until he thought his head would burst from the sheer noise; it reminded him far too much of the days he'd spent in the _Gryphon's_ brig. There wasn't enough hallway for him to pace properly – it was simply too short. Time wasn't going to fly by now. No, this time it crawled by at a snail's pace, each second seeming to last hours, each minute, a day. He longed to press his ear to the keyhole of Ryenne's door and hear her voice, responding to Quinn's ministrations. Well, he'd pressed his ear to the keyhole several times already, but there had been no sound from inside. At least, none he could make out. It was positively infuriating. How was he supposed to keep himself from going stark, raving mad if he couldn't see the woman he loved, couldn't be sure that she was going to be alright?

Jack paused and backtracked in his thoughts for a moment. _The woman he loved._ Such a strange thought. Up until recently, he had put love down as a thing only men like Will engaged in – men who had an unfailing sense of things like _loyalty_ and _honor_, but no sense of adventure. Men who enjoyed routine and responsibility. He had been wrong. His life had never been more adventurous, more unpredictable than it was with Ryenne. Having her around added new risks everyday. Especially one risk in particular, which he couldn't seem to keep his mind off of: the chance that she would not love him in return.

He was not such a fool to think that life could not continue without her – after all, he'd managed a good few years on his own before she came along – but he did not relish the prospect. Her presence had become a necessity. Not like air, but something more than that. He could continue on living without her, but he wouldn't be alive. Life without her would be something altogether different. Like being cursed.

_You're already cursed, you bloody fool. Don't imagine yourself into another one._ A stab of pain hummed through his left shoulder, as if to punctuate the statement. He needed to concentrate on the here and now, concentrate on -

"Captain?"

So absorbed was he in his pacing that he hadn't noticed the door to Will's chamber swinging open in front of him. It did, however, affect him somewhat when he nearly collided headfirst with his barrel-chested second mate. He stopped short, somewhat put out by the interruption.

"Yes, yes, Barlowe. What is it?"

Barlowe's face fell, sending a flicker of guilt through Jack's stomach. It tempered him somewhat. He wasn't the only one who was exhausted with worry, and it would serve him well to remember it.

"Forgive me, Barlowe. Did you need something?"

He'd never seen his second mate look so abashed. It made him feel like such a bastard.

"He's awake, Captain. And he's asking for you."

* * *

Quinn felt sick. Even more so than he'd felt when faced with Mr. Turner's more-than-gruesome injuries. It wasn't that Ryenne's wounds were horribly grievous – they were actually fairly minor and simple to tend to. It was the causes they suggested that made him queasy. A set of bite marks on her neck, another on her breast... human marks, he had no doubt about that. Bruises on her face, arms, hips... rope burns that had torn the delicate skin on her wrists... He couldn't bear the thoughts her injuries were foisting into his mind. He was only thirteen, but he was, by no means, naïve. He knew signs of rape when he saw them. It explained so much. It gave Ryenne's sudden semblance of lifelessness a cause, a reason. He understood perfectly now why she was a shell, not moving, hardly breathing. That didn't keep him from wishing she would stop. How could it? He wanted to comfort her, wanted to kill the men who'd done it, wanted some kind of reaction to his presence at her side. She'd been completely nude through most of his ministrations – a fact that he'd been most uncomfortable with, but was, unfortunately, necessary – and she hadn't even seemed to notice. There was no trace of Ryenne left; she was a body with no soul inside. And it broke his heart.

Her wounds he'd cleaned easily enough – crusted with blood and dirt as they were – and bandaged with what was left of his clean linen, but still he remained. He couldn't tear himself away from her side, though he knew he should be making some kind of report to Captain Jack. After all, he'd been hearing the man's muttered curses and pacing for the last two and a half hours; the captain was worried enough, he deserved some kind of consolation. But Quinn couldn't force himself to leave. He'd drawn the thin coverlet over Ryenne's motionless form, knelt at her bedside, and clasped her cold hand in both of his own, praying silently to whomever he thought might be listening. But when he could no longer hear muttering and footsteps outside the door, he knew it was time to leave.

Dragging himself to his feet with a few muttered curses of his own – mainly vows to have revenge on Ryenne's tormentors – he gathered up the scattered remains of his herbs, shoved them into his worn satchel, and turned to leave. The sound of Ryenne's voice, rough from fatigue and disuse, almost shocked him enough to drop it all once more.

"Don't tell Jack."

He spun about, searching for some spark of life on her face, some acknowledgment of his presence... but she had gone comatose once more, no hint that she'd ever spoken at all.

* * *

Three weeks passed. Granted, they were slow and painful in their passing, but they passed nonetheless, and Jack found himself, if not at peace, then at least more peaceful than he'd felt in over a month. (Peaceful being a relative term, of course.) Will's health was improving every day, little by little, and soon that brave glimmer returned to his once-deadened eyes, bright and foolish as it had always been. He was able to move about on his own, and if the movements were stiff and gingerly-done, what of it? He was sitting up in bed, laughing, making jokes and plans to return home to his young wife, who was, no doubt, growing sick with worry. He had written her a long letter during the second week, and Jack himself had searched for a ship on its way to Port Royale that would bear it.

There was no such change in Ryenne. He'd had hope during those first few days – one day, he'd gone to visit her in her room, and she'd been up and dressed in the simple gown he'd sent the tavern maid to buy for her, staring out the window with blank eyes. She hadn't responded when he spoke her name, hadn't even flinched. Her eyes were dead and empty. She wandered about her chamber like a ghost, but never left it. She ate what food was given her, but never asked for more. She was thin and pale, her face pinched and sad. Jack continued his visits every day, but it seemed to do little good; she never even acknowledged his presence.

Quinn claimed his visits went differently, however, and he certainly made them often enough. Oh, he never shirked his duties, and he always tended Will's wounds carefully and diligently, but every spare moment the boy had was spent with Ryenne. He hardly slept. More than once, Jack had had to lock the boy in his cabin, simply to keep him from doing anything but rest. He was extremely reluctant to leave Ryenne's side; he claimed that she was making progress, that she'd actually spoken a few words, answered a few questions...but he'd never tell Jack the questions or the answers. He claimed it wasn't his place. Personally, Jack thought he did it simply for a sense of superiority, to make him (Jack) feel helpless and jealous. Perhaps Ryenne hadn't really spoken at all. Will thought the idea was nonsense. He claimed that Jack only saw it that way because he _was_ jealous. But who wouldn't be? He wanted to be the one Ryenne opened up to, the only one who could comfort her...not just another useless bystander, unable to coax a single word or glance from her.

"You can't take it personally." Will would say. "She's been through more than either of us knows."

"But she talks to _him_." And she continued to speak to the young healer, but not to Jack. The frustration and jealousy grew and swelled within his chest, making it difficult to breathe around her. He could hardly stand to be around the boy during those times, for the urge to wring the lad's scrawny neck had grown nigh unbearable, almost too strong to resist.

It didn't help that he was getting cabin fever, and his impatience to get back on the open sea seemed to spread to everyone around him, like wildfire on dry timber. Barlowe and Gibbs had long since returned to the ship and begun collecting supplies with an obsessive fervor. Will was pushing himself toward health with almost frightening intensity, often working his strained and bruised muscles to the point of collapse. But his work was paying off, apparently – young Quinn, whose response to everyone else's fervor was to lock himself ever more frequently in Ryenne's chamber, had declared him fit to travel within the week. That statement alone had caused such a fit of hysterical, frenzied joyousness that even Jack couldn't help smiling and giving the boy a pat on the shoulder...which all-too-soon dissolved into murderous desire once more, and he'd dismissed him from the room with curt orders to return to the ship and prepare to make way. The lad's resulting protests had fallen upon deaf ears, and soon enough – though with much grumbling and dragging of feet – he'd done as he was told. Jack felt like a bit of a bastard, but the wild jealousy was enough to quash any moral compunctions in an instant. He was almost positive that visible smoke was pouring from his ears that moment, and an acrid taste washed over his tongue, making him grimace in disgust.

Will groaned.

"He's just a boy, Jack. Not a threat." Will's admonishing tone did nothing to improve Jack's mood. If anything, it sent it plummeting through the basement.

"You don't understand, Will!" He burst out of his chair, unable to keep his frustration leashed any longer, and began to pace angrily about the room. "She won't bloody speak to me! Not a word! She won't even _look_ at me!"

Will smiled wryly. "I don't blame her. I mean, look at yourself! You're not exactly a sight for sore eyes." He waved vaguely in Jack's direction, not meeting his incensed stare. "Come on, Jack! You look like you've been brawling with a pack of wolves – you've only got one arm, for Christ's sake!"

"I'm quite aware of that, thank you."

"Well, don't you think that's bound to have some effect on her? She probably doesn't understand what's going on!"

"She's not a bloody child!" There was no outlet for the anger. Jack felt as though he'd burst out of his skin at any moment. "She doesn't need _everything_ explained - "

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" Will's fury, for a brief moment, seemed to match Jack's own...but it faded just as quickly as it appeared, changing to a sort of pained sorrow as it diminished. "But you haven't really been looking at her. When _you_ look, all you see is the wall she's put up. She's _lost_, Jack. And your moans of self-pity aren't going to help her one bit." The sorrow had an edge to it now, and it seemed to bite into Jack's flesh, agitating him and admonishing him. "If you don't stop being so damn impatient, you're going to leave her behind."

Jack rolled his eyes, but a stab of guilt pierced his stomach.

"Stop being so bloody prosaic."

"Stop being so damn stubborn."

"Sometimes, I hate you."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Jack sighed in frustration, eying the pale man slouched on the tavern's dingy little cot, who began massaging his injured arm purposefully and avoiding Jack's gaze. A pile of bandages lay on the bed next to him, slightly pink in certain areas, signs of the still-healing wounds that marred his skin. Will's eyes smiled in that infuriating, feigned-innocent way that Jack so hated. It was the smile of a man who knew he was right, and it was being badly suppressed. Another sigh escaped his lips as he returned to slump once more into his uncomfortable wooden chair.

"Alright, smart arse. What do _you_ suggest I do?"

Will, for his part, did something Jack had truly come to hate. He grinned.


	50. Moonlight

"I don't know how you bloody talked me into this in the first place."

Will smiled benignly, gingerly readjusting the flattened goose-down pillows behind his back. It had begun to throb dully from lack of support and the edges of quills jabbing into his spine. Most of the pain from his injuries was gone, due in large part to the pain-relieving tonics young Quinn had been providing on a regular basis, but it was still there, lurking under the veil of herbs and incense. His muscles had been badly torn during their _adventure_ – he hardly expected them to heal so quickly, but he wanted nothing more than to return home to Elizabeth. And so, he used the veil to his best advantage, feigning as much health as possible. He hadn't fooled Quinn in the least, but the boy went along with it, knowing his reasons and respecting their urgency. After all, his wife was expecting. Who wouldn't be impatient at a time like that? Will had noticed, however, that his tonic doses were rapidly decreasing in volume, and the resulting pains limited his newfound mobility somewhat. He knew what game the lad was playing at, but it wasn't going to deter him, by any means. Their ship set sail in three days' time, and he was going with it.

"Talked you in to what? Tearing your arm off or sewing it back on?" Will let a small smirk color his features, amused by Jack's taciturn grumbling. The gesture didn't make him feel guilty; there seemed to be little to smile at these days, so he had to take advantage of the opportunity whenever he could.

Jack scowled, attempting to cross his...arm...over his chest. He failed miserably.

"Don't be such an arse." He shifted awkwardly, unsure how to express his anger. "You know damn well what I'm talking about."

Will's smirk must've spread further, because Jack's scowl certainly did.

"Well, the plan worked, didn't it?"

"Not without a price." Jack tapped his foot anxiously, eying the door and groaning. Will knew exactly why – he'd been keeping Jack from strangling the young healer for nigh unto a week. He had become insanely protective of Ryenne since the whole ordeal had happened, and her connection with the boy drove him mad. Will understood the dilemma; his and Elizabeth's marriage hadn't deterred the frequent visits they entertained from a certain Commodore. It _was_ bloody infuriating. But it didn't condone the murder of a 13-year-old boy. At least, to Will, it didn't.

"He's the only one we can trust to do this, Jack."

The other man snorted furiously. "_I_ don't trust him."

Will opened his mouth to reply, but the screech of rusty hinges cut him off as Quinn slipped into the room, his all-too-familiar herb satchel tucked neatly under his arm and a wary frown on his face. The guilt apparent in his eyes told them that he'd made a visit to Ryenne's chambers on his way here, as did the lingering smell of cinnamon incense – supposedly her favorite of the small selection Quinn carried with him. Will only knew this because the boy had told him the fact several times over already. A vein throbbed in Jack's temple.

"You sent for me, Captain?"

Seeing the curt reply forming on Jack's lips, Will cut him off, pasting a broad grin on his face. "I hope you brought a needle and thread."

Quinn looked slightly perturbed. "Of course."

An inarticulate grumble sounded from Jack's side of the room, making the lad hunch his shoulders in self-defense. He'd obviously noticed his captain's lack of affection for him in the past few days. Will turned his grin in the direction of the noise, knowing Jack would make him pay for it later on. "Good, lad. Because you're going to need it."

* * *

Ryenne did not know how long she dwelt in the mists. There was no way to know, no means of telling time. No sun cut the curtain of iron-gray fog, no moon...only the same eerie half-light, hardly enough to see by, permeated the space in which she wandered, lost and confused. She was lost in a way she'd never known before. It was as though she knew the way out, but couldn't remember a very important key. There were no doors or corridors to aid her any longer, no memories or...visions? Thankfully, there wasn't any blood either. She was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Occasionally, a familiar voice would whisper above her, but she could never catch the words, never figure out why it was so familiar. It seemed that a fog had invaded her mind, as well. She couldn't form a coherent thought, couldn't remember what had brought her here. And it wasn't until she heard _his_ voice that she remembered.

"_Miss Caelar?"_

The gentle tenor was clearer than anything she'd heard yet, snaking its way through the mists to her ears. The sound was still far away, but the words were clear.

"Quinn?"

She spun about, searching frantically for the source of the sound. The mist beckoned, taunting and ominous. But the voice lingered in her ears, calling.

She ran.

It was a blind effort at first; mist clouded her vision and the ground seemed rough and uneven beneath her feet. She stumbled more than once, but never stopped. More words echoed across the barren landscape, washing over her in tidal waves, saying the most unusual things.

"_What have they done to you?"_

What had _who_ done? A rock suddenly appeared underfoot, and she stumbled, almost losing her balance. _Who?_ She wanted to call, but she didn't have the breath.

"_Those_monsters_! Those bloody_ _monsters!"_

The landscape was changing. The ground had become slick with something warm and wet that splashed around Ryenne's ankles as she ran. She didn't look down – she didn't _have_ to look down to know what it was.

"_They can't get away with this..."_

The mist was clearing in front of her, and something was appearing through the smoky gaps in the cloud.

A wall. A wooden wall that stretched to the sky. It loomed before her, menace apparent in its very structure.

She came upon it too fast, her feet sliding on the wet stone beneath them, and she slammed into it, scrabbling at its rough surface in her frenzy to remain on her feet. The sound of her impact thundered up and up and up. Quinn's voice was fading.

"_I'm so sorry, Miss Caelar."_

Images flooded her mind. Rivulets of shadow running down bare skin, cold black eyes, a primal, feline man curled asleep next to her broken body...the merry dance of flames... The wall beneath her fingers became the rough wood of the Silver Gryphon's main deck. She bit back a cry as remembered pain and despair flooded her limbs.

_Consider our bargain fulfilled..._

"_What will the captain say?"_

Panic. Panic that pierced the clouds of her ethereal place. She pounded on the wall, and the sound of distant thunder rumbled.

"Don't tell him, Quinn!" The blood swirled around her ankles in an angry whirlpool. "_Don't tell Jack!_"

But the voice was gone.

* * *

Jack fumed, cursing silently under his breath. It wasn't so much the gentle sting of the needle and thread that pricked at his temper as the quiet presence seated at his left shoulder, the one actually doing the sewing. Quinn hadn't spoken a word since he'd taken up the task, but his silence was more distracting and aggravating than if he'd prattled on the entire time. It made Jack feel ill-at-ease, a feeling he despised.

Will's badly-subdued grinning certainly wasn't helping. The laughter apparent in the man's eyes only made Jack more frustrated, knowing full well it was at his expense. He scowled.

"Stop grinning at me, you bloody fool."

Will smirked, leaning back into his mountain of pillows. "It's no wonder Ryenne doesn't want to speak to you. You look like a mad dog."

Anger flared up in Jack's chest. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. Who ever suggested that idea?"

"Don't make it worse for yourself, mate."

Will laughed. "How could I possibly make it worse?"

"You can spend the return voyage in the brig, if you like."

The man's eyes danced with the same laughter, but he simply folded his hands serenely over his chest and nodded. Next to Jack, Quinn coughed quietly. Jack could hardly contain a growl.

"What is it, lad?"

The boy was quiet for a moment, and Jack noticed that the gentle prick-and-pull of the needle had stopped. His shoulder ached something fierce, and he had to resist the urge to run his fingers over the rough stitches he knew would be there. Despite knowing that, his arm still felt oddly detached. And it burned, as if his body was rejecting the reunion. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the gentle rustle of Quinn's herb satchel being opened and closed. Once or twice, he caught the boy trying to catch his eye, but he didn't turn his head.

"That's the best I can do, Captain." The boy sounded almost ashamed. "If you like, I can brew you something for the pain."

Despite his struggles, the growl still managed to find its way into Jack's voice. "It would hardly help, now, would it? Not unless you know a cure for Aztec curses. Or have you forgotten about that?"

The coin was in his hand in a second, drawn from one of his innumerable pockets. He almost felt guilty about how much he enjoyed the boy's resulting shudder. Almost.

Across the room, Will smiled. "I know an excellent recipe for beef stew."

Jack scowled for what seemed like the thousandth time that day and shoved the blasted coin back into a pocket. "What in the bloody hell does that have to do with anything, Will?"

"Nothing, really."

"Ah." Despite himself, he turned to watch Quinn tripping over himself to gather up his scattered belongings and be gone. The boy must have noticed; his face turned a deep shade of crimson and his movements became even clumsier, if that was at all possible. His voice held enough shade to make Jack feel slightly sheepish about his actions. It infuriated him.

"Excuse me, Captain, I'll just be -"

"You're not to be visiting Ryenne, boy."

Quinn's nostrils flared in indignation. "But Captain! Her wounds -"

"Are well enough that they can afford to be without your attentions for one day." From the corner of his eye, Jack could see the look of disapproval forming on Will's face, but he ignored it. "You are to return to the ship. You have duties there that cannot be shirked."

"Captain, my duty also extends to healing the wounded, and -"

"You_duty_ is to obey your captain, else you'll find yourself seeking other arrangements. Do you understand?"

The look on Quinn's face was positively mutinous.

"Yes, Captain."

"Good. Now get back to the ship." When the boy hesitated, Jack's growl returned, even harsher from the pain he was suppressing. "_That's an order!_"

He didn't watch the boy gather his satchel and skulk out of the room, nor did he watch the disapproval on Will's face deepen into a scowl of disgust. In fact, he didn't watch anything at all. It was very difficult to watch anything when you couldn't see anything, and you couldn't very well see anything with your eyes closed, which, in fact, Jack's were at the moment. His breathing, to his own ears, had become harsh and labored, and he was gritting his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter. Oh, but it_ burned_!

Had his eyes been open, he would have seen Will's scowl quickly replaced by concern. As it was, he didn't, but the note of worry in the other man's voice communicated it well enough.

"What's wrong, Jack?"

He concentrated, tried to shift his left arm, tried to make himself relax. "It's worse. Much worse." His shoulder ached and stung, but didn't budge. "I don't – I can't even move it anymore."

"How can that be? It's...well...it's attached, isn't it?"

"I think so." He pressed his fingertips against the uneven stitches and realized, much to his chagrin, that his fingertips had no sensation in them whatsoever. Muttering a curse, his eyes snapped open to view the damage for themselves. And there they were, clumsy but solid as ever. "We need to set sail soon, mate. This curse is driving me bloody insane."

Will snorted humorlessly. "I'm ready when you are. It's just that the boy thinks -"

"Damn the boy. What does he know about sailing?" He was sick of being holed up in this bloody tavern, sick of the impertinent young healer. He needed to get out... "To Hell with him. We set sail tomorrow evening."

* * *

Midnight found Jack pacing back and forth down the narrow hallway outside Room 12, occasionally pausing to glare at the peeling black numbers painted on its door as though they had done him some great personal wrong. His left arm hung by his side like a lead weight, swinging slightly whenever he moved. He ignored it as best he could, his attention focused on the shabby door in front of him. He dreaded entering the room beyond, not because he was afraid, but because of the frustration he knew he was about to cause himself.

He'd stopped his visits days ago, unable to handle Ryenne's silence and vacant eyes, but he never stopped thinking about her. He could only guess what she'd been through in those days alone with Quinn, and even the guessing itself was unpleasant. Will had mentioned hearing something about a place called "The House of Daughters," but the name meant little to him. Oh, he had his theories, each more grim than the last, but only Ryenne herself would be able to explain in full. And, as she hadn't spoken a word to him in weeks, that seemed very unlikely.

The boy wasn't helping either, acting as though the whole thing was some big damn secret. He'd even refused to talk about the extent of Ryenne's injuries. Jack wasn't an idiot. He'd seen the bite marks just as well as Quinn had, but he'd hoped...

Damn what he'd hoped. It didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was that they'd gotten out alive, that the bastard was dead. Wasn't that good enough?

_No, not dead. _Jack stopped pacing and pressed his eyes shut, suppressing the venomous rage swelling in his chest. There hadn't been time to affirm that the man was dead, but the ship had been consumed by flames in mere minutes. He couldn't possibly have survived, but... Jack wanted nothing so much at the moment as he wanted a chance to plunge a knife deep into the man.

His eyes snapped open as he realized he'd unthinkingly unsheathed his knife, the ivory handle clenched in a white-knuckled grip. He grimaced, sheathing it once more.

"No use for you tonight, my friend."

A beam of moonlight fell across his hand as he reached for the doorknob, and he shuddered at his own skeletal fingers. He couldn't get used to the sight, no matter how he tried. Soon enough, though, he would be himself again. They set sail tomorrow; he only had a few days more. At most, a week.

That's why he'd come: to tell her. He didn't know why, but he kept harboring the ridiculous hope that the news of their departure would bring some spark of life back into her. The more he thought about it, however, the more hopeless it seemed. Shaking his head, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight shining feebly through the filthy windows. He paused a moment, waiting for his eyes to fully adjust, and examined the room as he did so. It smelled strongly of cinnamon. An untouched plate of food, long since gone cold, sat on the rickety table next to what look like a bowl of ashes. (_Incense_, Jack corrected himself.) It was here that Ryenne sat, in the room's only chair, staring blankly at the wall in front of her. Her face was as gaunt as ever, her dress rumpled, and her hair looked as though she'd recently been out in a gale wind. Still, Jack thought he had never seen anything lovelier. It nearly hurt to look at her. One of her hands – once tanned and heavily calloused, now pale and frail-looking – rested on the table, fingers curled loosely around what appeared to be a fork. He wanted so much to stretch out his good hand and stroke those cold, white fingers, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Her eyes hadn't left the wall since he'd walked in.

"We set sail tomorrow, Ryenne." He'd tried to make his voice sound hearty and reassuring, but it came out as hardly more than a whisper.

_It makes no difference,_ he told himself,_ She wouldn't have reacted either way_.

He took a few hesitant steps into the room, pretending to look out the window and rubbing his deadened shoulder, but she took as little notice of him as she did of the food in front of her. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter. He might as well have been trying to convince himself that unicorns existed, for all the good it did.

"Quinn tells me you've been improving," his chuckle sounded painfully like a wheeze. He tried to fight the lump forming in his throat. "But I have to say that I haven't noticed any. Improvement, that is."

Silence.

"This is extraordinarily difficult for me. Sometimes I wonder whether or not to believe you're really alive."

Her chest was rising and falling with shallow breaths, but there were no other signs of life than that. Frustrated tightened like metal bands across his chest, making it hard to breathe himself.

"_Dammit_, Ryenne! Why won't you bloody _look_ at me!?" He seized the nearest end of the table and overturned it, sending ash and bits of food everywhere.

She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.

He didn't know why he did it. The anger and frustration that had been building for so long...he couldn't think... The next thing he knew, he was shaking her; shaking her with his good arm gripping her so tight he knew she would have fresh bruises.

"_Goddammit_, Ryenne! _Look at me_! _LOOK AT ME_!" He growled through clenched teeth. Her empty eyes only made him more furious. He felt as though, at any moment, he would explode into a thousand pieces and scatter in every direction.

Realization set in, and, as suddenly as his anger had overwhelmed him, it vanished, leaving a cold nausea in its place. Horrified at his outburst, he released Ryenne more abruptly than he'd meant to and her chair toppled backwards, carrying her with it. The nausea flowed over him in waves, and he closed his eyes, shuddering. He knew he should kneel and check on her, make sure he hadn't caused even more damage, but he couldn't bring himself to touch her again. He didn't –_couldn't_ – trust himself to do so. Staggering backward, he pressed a fist to his closed eyes, and -

A bloodcurdling scream rent the air, and his eyes snapped open in shock. Any relief he might possibly have felt at Ryenne's sudden show of emotion was quickly quelled by the look on her face. She was staring at him in open mouthed horror, her eyes filled with a wild sort of terror. A line of scarlet was tracing its way down her chin, and he realized with a jolt that her lip was split and bleeding. If she noticed this herself, he couldn't tell. She looked positively paralyzed with fear, the cause of which was unknown to him. And it didn't strike him why she should be so afraid until he lowered his fist and saw the shriveled mess his arm had become. Moonlight pooled in a pale rectangle around the graying tendons and pearly bone that now made up his feet.

"Damn."

His head shot up, lips already moving to form the words that would soothe her terror. He needn't have bothered. She was already gone, leaving only a trail of scattered debris to mark her passage. Uttering another strangled curse, he bolted out the door he had so foolishly left open, praying she hadn't stumbled downstairs and into the tavern. Lee wasn't a bad man, but he wouldn't keep his patrons from having their fun. Jack's eyes darted about, frantically searching. She couldn't have gotten far, injured and exhausted as she was. And, sure enough, as soon as he crossed into the hall he caught a flurry of ragged skirts and the door to Room 13 crashed open.

_Will, you'd better bloody do something_! But Will had been sound asleep when he'd left him, aided by one of Quinn's strange herb mixtures. Nothing would wake him. He would be absolutely no help at all.

Creeping down the corridor and peering into the darkness of Room 13, he found he would need no help from Will, after all. At least, not in the nature he'd expected. It seemed the fright alone had been enough to stop Ryenne's flight. She had collapsed once more, silent and unmoving as if she were dead.

Jack cursed.

* * *

_He's not coming back. _The realization sent chills of panic down Ryenne's spine. Quinn's visits had been like anchors to her sanity, and without them... She vainly attempted to brush away a tendril of mist that was creeping over her shoulder and sucked in a few lungfuls of the stale air. It was difficult to be certain, as his visits came at random, but he'd never been gone so long. The light around her had dimmed to a murky twilight, and so that meant...two days? She sighed. Of the many changes Quinn had brought to her dreary landscape, this was the one for which she was most grateful: a sense of time, of night and day. It wasn't much, merely brightening and dimming of the misty light, but it was there.

There had been other things, as well. Sometimes she had the impression of walls around her, of a musty little room with a window facing the sea. Other times, she swore she could taste food in her mouth, smell cinnamon on the air, but the flavors – the smells – were only bland echoes of what they should have been. It was at these times that she felt she was coming back to herself, and Quinn's face would swim before her eyes, his voice soft in her ears. But, as soon as she found herself alone once more, the mist returned and the single wall towered before her. If she had had the presence of mind to do it, she would have wept. She never did; with the mist came the veil over her thoughts, separating her from her rationality. She couldn't part it on her own – she'd tried. It was Quinn's gift and Quinn's alone.

Something was different about tonight, however. Ryenne felt dizzy and disoriented – even more so than usual – and she kept hearing voices. Strange voices, so unlike Quinn's mellow tenor. One voice in particular, a gravelly baritone, was the most prevalent. She couldn't make out any words, but it was there, hovering on the edge of her consciousness like a fly buzzing just out of reach. It was maddening, and it seemed to go on for hours.

She was just settling down to wait out the current bout of ghost voices when it happened. Everything shifted. It was like an earthquake...but it couldn't be. There was a pressure closing on her arm like a steel manacle...and then, she was falling, the strange voice ringing in her ears.

"_LOOK AT ME_!"

The ground came up hard and fast, but it was not the cold stone she was expecting. Her fingers scrabbled at rough wood as she struggled to regain the wind that had been knocked from her lungs. At first, she thought it was the deck of a ship, but familiar walls closed in around her and she knew better. Raising her head, her eyes searched frantically for Quinn's face. He had to be there: this was the room! She was not at all prepared for what they met instead.

A living skeleton loomed above her, arm poised to strike, bony fingers curled like claws. Moonlight shined through gaps in its tattered clothing, gleamed off of pearly bone. It drew a rattling breath...

She screamed.

Kicking away the chair that had somehow become entangled with her legs, she scrambled to her feet, and...paused, panicked. Though it was the same room she had often seen in her visits to reality, she had no idea what lay beyond it. But the door was open, and the monster lurked behind... so she ran.

Beyond the door was a corridor, lit by a single dusty oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. It was lined with identical wooden doors down both sides of its length. The lamp cast queer shadows upon the wall, making her hesitant to venture any farther. Her hesitation only lasted as long as it took to hear the muffled curse behind her and the eerie click of bone on wood, however, and she flung herself across the hallway, at the door numbered 13 in peeling black numbers. For a moment, it seemed as though the door wouldn't open, but it was only a moment, and the knob turned under her frantic fingers, plunging her into darkness once more.

She was not alone. Her eyes strained to make out the figure sprawled on the shabby cot, and, as they adjusted, they met with a more terrible sight than she could possibly have imagined. Skin, paler than the bones of the nightmarish creature that followed her, stretched taut across the face she would never be able to mistake, not even in death. Not even in death.

_Will._

Her consciousness fled before she even hit the floor.


	51. Isla de Muerta

For the third time in so many months, Jack found himself navigating the treacherous cliffs of the Isla de Muerta. Relief and sorrow warred in his chest. He was no near to the end of his physical torture, but for his heart there was no relief in sight. Ryenne had broken out of her strange trance, true enough, but though she was able to communicate with him, she had thus far refused to do so. The only news of her he ever received was reluctantly relayed through the ship's young healer-turned-tyrant. In fact, he had not had any direct contact with her since that troubling night at Lee's Tavern, when she had awoken from a dead faint, sobbing uncontrollably and crying out for Quinn.

Annoyed as that had made him, he had had no choice but to call the young healer-turned-tyrant back from his brief shipside exile. His blood boiled remembering the tenderness with which Quinn had gathered her shaking form into his thin arms, and the indignity of being shooed out of the room by a 13-year-old's stern gaze. It certainly didn't help that, with his final backward glance into room 13, he'd caught a glimpse of a sleepy, sheepish grin from the man who had been fast asleep mere seconds before and who was not -- much to Jack's chagrin -- being forcefully ejected from the room. And then Quinn had slammed the door in his face, something of a satisfied smirk crossing his features.

As if in apology for his ability to have been a silent witness to Ryenne's awakening, Will had detailed all that had happened between the healer and his patient that night... which was nothing at all. Apparently Quinn had murmured a lot of soothing nonsense, to which Ryenne had responded with a hiccupping sob or two. Will had called him a fool for thinking it would be anything else, but still...

The rhythmic thudding of wood on wood distracted Jack from his fuming, and he turned, frowning, as Will hobbled to his side. A crutch, made of scrap wood and cloth bindings, was tucked firmly under his left shoulder. He, too, was frowning.

"You shouldn't torture yourself like this, Jack."

"_You_ should be in bed." He sighed angrily. "Quinn's orders, you know."

"And _you_ know that Elizabeth will skin us both alive if I'm not able to walk in the door on my own legs."

"What are you doing out here, then? You should be in bed, gathering your strength."

Will flashed him a wry grin. "I'm practicing." As if to demonstrate, he took a few shambling steps, wincing and leaning heavily on his makeshift crutch. Jack shook his head.

"Not very convincing, mate. You're going to kill yourself if you keep that up." He shifted his grip on the tiller, fixing his eyes on the narrow passage he was navigating at the moment. It was Will's turn to sigh.

"She won't see me either, you know. She won't see anyone."

"Except that damnable boy."

"Can you blame her? After all she's been through, he must seem the only person on this ship who isn't a threat."

"What do you mean by that?" There was an edge to Jack's deceptively quiet tone.

Will shifted uncomfortably. "Jack, you know as well as I do what that bastard must have done to her. She's probably afraid that _we_ willÑ"

Jack's eyes flashed. "I would _never_- "

"-and the lad is the only one young enough to be, well... safe." Will shrugged. "It makes sense."

"It most certainly does _not_." Jack jerked the tiller rather harder than he'd meant to, almost skewering the Pearl on the jagged mast of one of the Isla de Muerta's many shipwrecks. "Just because he's young doesn't mean the little vermin doesn't have a-"

"_Ahem_."

Despite the fact that he'd done no more than clear his throat, there was no mistaking young Quinn's voice. Fighting the color rising in his cheeks, Jack glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was the boy, his face white with humiliated fury. Mustering a scowl of his own, Jack turned back to the tiller.

"How long have you been standing there, boy?"

The lad's terse reply was clearly directed at Will. "If you would be so kind, Mr. Turner, Miss Caelar would like to see you in her cabin."

A thrill of anger shuddered down Jack's spine, and he gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter. He could almost hear the blush-and that damned familiar sheepish grin-creeping across Will's face. As Quinn turned to depart, Jack turned his scowl on the half-crippled fool next to him. He'd not been wrong about the grin.

"So much for your theories, eh, _Mister_ Turner?"

* * *

Will's heart was thundering in his chest, an erratic tattoo that made his limping gait seem even more jarring and uneven. Sweat made the palms of his hands slick, and he grasped his crutch tighter, knowing all too well what would happen if he lost his grip. It made no sense. He couldn't have explained - even to himself - what was making him so nervous... other than the dread of facing Jack again, of course. But Ryenne? He should have felt elated that she was allowing him to see her. Instead, he felt only a horrible guilt.

_This should be Jack, not me._ A splinter from his rough-hewn crutch pierced his palm and he swore quietly, attempting to refocus his attention on the slight figure he was following. Not that he needed a guide. He knew well enough where Ryenne's tiny cabin was located, but a second glance at Quinn's rigid, furious demeanor kept his mouth shut. The lad walked with the stiff, upright posture of a soldier, anger clear in every line of his body. The boy had obviously taken his guardianship of Ryenne very seriously, and Will knew that Jack's accusations had affected him deeply. He wanted nothing less than to strain the boy's composure further. God knew the poor boy had suffered enough as it was, and looking after a woman who seemed to be half-mad had certainly taken its tole.

It was dark and dank below decks, as usual, and the light from the battered lantern Quinn carried did queer things to his worn complexion. His already-hollowed cheekbones seemed gaunt and skeletal, and his once-tanned skin looked gray and hung loose on his thin frame. He looked old and dried up, much too old for a thirteen-year-old boy. It put Will in mind of Jack's cursed skeletal form; the resemblance was far too close for comfort. He shuddered, trying to shake off the image.

"I haven't touched her."

It took Will a moment to realize the boy was speaking to him, but when he did, he regretted the shudder immediately. He knew what the lad had thought he'd been thinking. Quinn wasn't looking at him, but he had stopped dead in his tracks, fists clenched so tightly Will thought that, perhaps, if he listened hard enough, he might be able to hear the knuckles crack.

"I know you haven't, Quinn. Whoever said you had?" He made his voice as gentle as possible.

"The captain... I know he thinks I -"

Will frowned to himself. Damn Jack.

"He's worried, and rightfully so." He paused, unsure of how to phrase his explanation. "There are a lot of things you don't understand about him and Ryenne. It's best if... Oh, I don't know what's best, lad. Just don't take it to heart."

Quinn nodded, obviously not comforted, and returned to his stiff guidance. When they reached the door to Ryenne's cabin a few moments later, he turned and gave what Will thought was an unnecessarily formal little bow. Before he could catch the boy's eye, however, he was already striding away, leaving Will alone in the narrow corridor. He sighed irritably, feeling his heart constrict in his chest.

He was on his own now.

His hand hesitated on the doorknob. Something terribly important hinged on this visit; he could feel it. It made him want to turn and hobble right back up to the deck. Dread settled like a knot in his stomach.

_What are you afraid of? It_'_s only Ryenne. It_'_s only...Carolyn. _Steeling himself, he pushed the door open... and blinked in surprise.

He didn't know what he had been expecting. He hadn't seen Ryenne in weeks, save for the barest glimpse of a ragged figure being ushered onto the ship ahead of him. Quinn had certainly done his job well. She was dressed in a clean woolen shift, and her dark hair was pulled back in a neat braid. She looked a good deal tidier and healthier than he felt himself, albeit a little pale and worn.

Her eyes were haunted.

"Hello, Will." Her voice was soft and timid, and held nothing of the brash young woman he had been beginning to grow used to. He suddenly felt very awkward.

"Ryenne..." he swallowed, unsure of what to say. "You look well."

The corner of her lip quirked, as if in an attempt to smile. It did not reach her eyes. "As do you."

Will highly doubted he looked anything resembling "well," but before he could open his mouth to say so, Ryenne had collapsed against him. He coughed. Awkwardly.

"Oh, Will, I thought you were dead!"

"Dead?" He felt very bewildered. "When?"

Ryenne seemed unable to answer; she clutched at his shirt, shaking with silent sobs. Slight though she was, his legs screamed in protest at the strain of holding them both upright. His crutch dug ruthlessly into his ribs and he grimaced, but forced himself to remain steady - for her sake, if not for his own. Unsure of what else to do, he stroked her hair with his free hand and attempted to make soothing noises. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to do.

She jumped at his touch, jerking away as though he had struck her. There was fear in her eyes, and that he understood, more so than her tears. He knew the source of this fear.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Ryenne. No one is going to hurt you." He held up his hands disarmingly, but knew better than to attempt to close the distance between them. She did not seem reassured.

"You look so much like him." Her voice was frightened, suspicious. "I never noticed before."

"Ryenne, look at me. I'm not Quinn."

She pressed her hands to her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. "Don't say his name!"

He wanted to gather her into his arms and comfort her, but he feared moving toward her. Instead, he took a step backward, leaning wearily against the closed door. Ryenne didn't look at him. Her hands traveled her face blindly, trembling as new sobs broke from her throat. Will had never felt so helpless. He could do nothing but watch as she sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands and shuddering under the force of her own tears. He could feel his own frustrated tears pricking at his eyelids. Long habit made him blink them away.

Ryenne's voice was ragged when she finally managed to speak again.

"Oh, Will. I'm so sorry. I was on-only trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what, Ryenne?" He shook his head, knowing she wouldn't see. "I'm the one who should have been protecting you.Ó

"No, Will," she finally looked up at him from where she knelt. There was anguish in her eyes. "You don't understand! They were going to... Tyrus was going to..." She gasped in a few breaths, starting to crumble once more. The pain in Will's back and legs spiked sharply, and an angry hiss escaped before he could stop it. H was beginning to get annoyed, both at his own helplessness... and at Ryenne's. His reply came out harsher than he had meant it to.

"Does it matter, Ryenne? Does it?" Somewhat recklessly deciding to speak his piece and be done with it, Will slowly swung his way over to her narrow, meticulously-made bed and discarded his crutch. She flinched when he sat down, and he ignored the answering prick of anger it kindled in him. He knew he should be more patient, but... enough was enough. He took a deep breath and plunged forward.

"It doesn't matter anymore, Ryenne. Whatever their intentions were, however terrible, I'm still here. Yes, I'm injured - we all are - but, despite appearances, I am healing. I'm injured because I _chose_ to participate, not because you couldn't do enough to prevent it. _None of this was your fault._ Blaming yourself for injuries that I sustained of my own free will not only stops you from being able to heal yourself, but also overlooks the role my choices had in what happened. Remember: Jack and I set out to rescue you, not the other way around."

Ryenne's eyes were full of sorrow. "But if I hadn't... you wouldn't have..." She shook her head miserably, burying her face in her hands once more. "You don't understand. This is all my fault! If I hadn't been so stupid... and now, just look at you!"

"No, Ryenne, _you_ don't understand. If I so chose, I would still be in Port Royale with Elizabeth -" he tried very hard not to stumble over her name. "- and you might still be in the hands of those... those... _villains_. But I didn't. I chose to come, Ryenne; you cannot blame yourself. And the same way you can't blame yourself for what happened to me, you _cannot_ blame yourself for what happened... to you." He watched as her eyes widened, panic overwhelming her sorrow for one brief moment. He held up a hand.

"Yes, Ryenne. I know about... about _him_. We all know. And _none of us blame you_."

She was beginning to breathe too quickly, the tears already glossing her eyes.

"Jack knows? But he _can_'_t_ know! Quinn promised me he wouldn't say a word, and - "

"And what?" Will pushed. Ryenne hugged herself, looking away.

"He wasn't to know, because..." She drew a shuddering breath that quickly crumbled into a sob. "Because I didn't want him to know how weak I was. I wanted... I wanted him to love me." She whispered the last words, closing her eyes against the tears.

Will's mouth fell open in surprise, and he began to shake his head, slowly at first and then more vehemently. "No, Ryenne. No, no, no." She only squeezed her eyes tighter shut, biting her lip in the effort not to sob aloud. He opened his arms. "Ryenne, come here, sweetheart. Please. Just come here."

He didn't think she would.

She did.

He was finally able to cradle her in his arms, letting her curl into him as the sobs tore from her small frame. He stroked her hair and rocked them both, waiting out the storm. It seemed to take forever, but no one could cry with that kind of intensity for long. As she quieted, he spoke softly.

"Ryenne, Jack loves you... very much. I think he loves you even more than he realizes. He knows the monster that Quinn was, and he doesn't fault you for what happened. It caused him pain that he couldn't be protected from, but it was a truth that he deserved to know. If anything, he's terrified that after all of this, you won't..." Should he have told her? Should he keep going? It wasn't his place... and what would Jack think? "That _you_ won't love _him_. And it's damn near killing him that you won't see him."

She was quiet for a long time, and Will nearly checked to see if she was still awake. Finally, however, she stirred, brushing a strand of tear-dampened hair away from her face.

"I didn't know," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Will allowed just a hint of smile into his voice. "I'm really not the one you should tell."

"I can't -"

"You should."

An echoing splash sounded from outside as the anchor was hauled overboard. Jack must have steered them safely into the cove. It was strange to see merry yellow sunlight pouring in through the porthole; Will felt as though he had been in Ryenne's cabin for hours. Dark, miserable hours. He stretched stiff joints, watching Ryenne cross to that same porthole and look out. When she glanced back over her shoulder at him, her face was weary, but not tormented. Bewildered, but not hunted.

"Where are we?"

"Isla de Muerta." He could see the panic stiffening her limbs, though she made a valiant effort to keep it off of her face. "Jack is going to... well, take care of his curse... and then we'll be leaving. For good," he added quickly.

She nodded, relaxing somewhat. "I had no idea... I don't even remember getting back on the ship."

"Well, Ryenne, you've been away for a long time."

She was silent another long moment, gazing blankly out the porthole. And then,

"Jack was cursed? _When?_"

Will couldn't help himself.

He laughed.

* * *

Jack was more than mildly annoyed. None of his plans were going as... well... planned. He knew he shouldn't (and couldn't) blame his current predicament on Will, but he could not seem to help himself. After all, Will had had nothing to do with Jack's decision to re-curse himself... and Jack could hardly put Will at fault because Ryenne had favored him for her first conversation and company in weeks. Still, wasn't it Will who had pressured him into tearing his own arm off in the first place? His plan had worked, yes, but it _was_ his fault that Jack was now unable to make his trek into the heart of the Isla de Muerta unaided. He had wanted so badly to make that solitary journey, had wanted to pour his pent-up anger and frustration into every stroke of the oars. Instead, he was being forced to listen to Gibb's superstitious prattle. Bad luck _this_, and bad luck _that_... Not that the man wasn't a fine sailor, but Jack was beginning to wonder if there was anything Gibbs _didn_'_t_ consider bad luck. Worse, his shoulder had begun to pulse and throb; they were getting closer.

He suddenly felt anxious, his limp and dangling arm weighing heavily on his mind. What if Will was wrong? What if he never regained the use of his arm? He would have to leave the _Pearl_; a one-armed pirate was a handicap and a hindrance, not a valuable crewmember, let alone _captain_. And Ryenne? Would she be able to accept half a man... If she had ever considered accepting him at all, that was.

_Well, and who else would she choose?_ Before he even finished the thought, he had his answer: Will. She might choose Will. Will, who had been her childhood companion, whom she had loved long before her young mind could even comprehend the idea. Of course she would choose him. After all, it was no secret that the ladies fancied Will, and always had. Apparently he was something of a "looker." (Personally, Jack was of the opinion that Will rather resembled a large, shaggy dog...) In any case, it hardly mattered. Will would never even consider leaving Elizabeth, whether Ryenne loved him or not. It was simply out of the question. _And that only leaves..._

Quinn.

_He_'_s only thirteen, you dolt._

...the _other_ Quinn.

_Dead... most likely. And a villain._

But Ryenne might have loved him. She might never recover. She might spend the rest of her life pining away for her lost love. Of course she would never forgive Jack, his killer.

_Ridiculous. You_'_re being ridiculous now._

A cold breeze whispered across the back of his neck, making him snap to attention. Just as he raised his head, the tunnel's ceiling fell away, opening into the cavernous central chambers of Isla de Muerta. He'd forgotten their splendor. Gold and riches gleamed at him from every angle. The cheery afternoon sunlight poured in through holes in the cavern roof, making jewels sparkle and gold gleam. Despite everything that had happened, that might still happen, Jack felt himself grinning.

"D'ye want me to come with you, Cap'n?" Gibbs's voice was hesitant, his hands still on the oars. Jack suddenly felt guilty, his coarse behavior towards his first mate seeming uncalled for and unjust. He shook his head.

"No, Gibbs. I'd rather go it alone."

The other man nodded, and gave the oars one last, mighty tug. Jack was out of the boat before its bottom even scraped against the shore, stumbling only slightly as he struggled to regain his flawed sense of balance. He didn't bother to look back and see if Gibbs had noticed, but plunged onward, his heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. It was almost over... just a few feet more... He rounded the last mound of booty at an easy jog... and tripped. The ground came up hard and fast, nothing but coins and rocks to cushion his fall.

"Bloody stupid treasure..." It seemed the cause of his fall was a small, rather unremarkable chest made of a dull, reddish wood. Grumbling irritably, Jack propped himself up on his good elbow and peered at the emblem stamped into its scuffed lid. A bird in flight, clutching a rose in its claws.

Jack looked closer. No, not just _any_ bird... a sparrow.

Curious, he sat up and lifted the box into his lap. It was very light. Strange. It seemed so out of place, this plain little box in a cavern full of treasure. Jack was not one to put much stock in superstition or providence, but this queer little box was making him feel slightly nervous. He leaned back as far as he could as he opened the lid, just in case. But when no puff of oddly-colored smoke - no horrible and portentous sound - erupted from its contents, he peered inside, his curiousity raging.

To a stranger's eye, the tiny chest's contents may have seemed as unremarkable as the chest itself, but to Jack, it was different. Inside the chest, cushioned in the folds of a scrap of midnight blue velvet, was a simple amber pendent. It was the same warm shade of amber as Ryenne's eyes.

A bittersweet smile played about Jack's lips as he scooped it into the palm of his hand, running a thumb over its smooth surface. It was a small and oval in shape, held in place by a simple gold setting. Turning it over, Jack found the same emblem stamped into the box's cover engraved into the gold itself. A sparrow in flight. Looping the long chain over his neck, he struggled to his feet once more. He may not have put much stock in the providencial, but he knew it when he saw it. He tucked the pendant under his shirt and lifted his gaze to the clearing ahead of him. The Aztec chest stared him down like an old foe. Its lid was still open. He remembered the haste with which he'd been forced to abandon it last. He remembered other things, as well.

_Dragging her to her feet with no regard whatsoever for her delicate condition, he pinned her between himself and the Aztec chest, subduing her feeble struggling with little trouble at all, and caught her jaw with his other hand, forcing her to keep looking at him. Her breathing was ragged and her eyes were glazed with tears that leaked out onto her cheeks in a little stream. She looked very frightened, indeed._

_Let this be the end of it, then. _Striding towards the chest with more confidence than he felt, Jack slipped his hand into an innermost pocket and drew the cursed coin forth. Its graven skull leered up at him from the palm of his hand. Careful not to let it slip from his fingers, he reached for the rough Aztec dagger. The ritual was harder, only having one hand to work with, but he made do. Squeezing the dagger in his good hand until he could feel the edges biting through his skin, he thought of Ryenne. If he was never able to use his left arm again, it would be worth it, knowing he did it for her. The dagger fell with a clatter, spattering droplets of blood across the chest and its contents. Blood smeared the skeleton face of one coin in particular, and its rictus grin seemed satisfied. Jack held his breath. Nothing happened for a long moment.

And then it came.

Searing pain ripped through Jack's body, and he had to snatch his breath in ragged gasps. His arm felt like it was afire, a band of white hot torment tracing his upper arm like a shackle. He hunched over the chest, screaming in agony. A thousand golden skulls leered up at him, their empty eye sockets swallowing him up in deep, black darkness.

* * *

Will came up to the deck when he heard the commotion from below, Ryenne trailing close behind him. They were just in time to see Jack brought aboard.

Will didn't know what was happening at first. He didn't recognize the limp figure Gibbs was laying out on the deck; Jack had never seemed less than alert, it was strange to see him so... lifeless. Realization was coming to him in waves. It wasn't until young Quinn pushed past him to kneel next to the motionless man that he understood what was happening. Ryenne's thoughts, it seemed, were only a half a second behind.

"No!" Will caught her arm as she tried to pass him. Shock seemed to flood from his body into hers. They froze, waiting, as Quinn pressed his ear to Jack's chest.

"Alive."

Ryenne was shaking. _Crying,_ Will realized. He let her go, watched her kneel next to Jack's still body. It was then that he noticed.

"What's that?" He, too, knelt beside Jack and brushed away the tatters that remained of Jack's left sleeve. Quinn sucked in a sharp breath.

There, on Jack's upper left arm - the arm he'd... damaged - was a pearly white scar, almost a handspan thick, tracing his arm like a bracelet.


	52. Home

Quinn was not at all pleased with his current situation. After all, watching the woman you were, well, _possibly_ in love with fawn over another man was no one's ideal situation. His only bit of luck was that the Captain was not conscious, and therefore, could not gloat. He didn't think it was entirely fair. After all, wasn't it he who had tended to Ryenne's every need when she was, well... ill? Hadn't he been the only one she would talk to? And now she was petting and fretting over a man who had locked her in the brig on numerous occasions, had threatened to throw them both off the ship at least once? Had she forgotten those things in light of the Captain's current predicament? Quinn didn't care if he never woke up at all. Personally, he thought Jack Sparrow deserved what he got.

"Do you think he'll be alright, Quinn?" He flushed guiltily at the sound of Ryenne's voice, but did not look up from the poultice he was mixing.

"I don't know." He ground the pestle rather harder than was necessary, imagining Jack's face on every dry, brown leaf that crumbled beneath it. "If I knew what was wrong with him, I could probably tell you. But I don't. So I can't."

Ryenne was silent for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn could see her smoothing Jack's hair back from his forehead. Her eyes had a softness he'd never seen in them before. He felt as though he were intruding on something private.

The leaves had become a fine powder under the force of his pestle. He set it aside, hands shaking, and reached for the pitcher of cool water Ryenne had retrieved for him only moments before. She'd been so eager to do something, anything, that would help _dear_ Jack get better. It was infuriating. Quinn wished he had the nerve to mix up something poisonous.

"It's been two hours. What if he never wakes up?"

He sighed. "It's been _one_ hour, not two, and he'll probably wake up within the next few minutes." Oh, how he hoped he was wrong.

He wasn't.

He was almost finished mixing up the sweet-smelling poultice when he heard Jack's groan. Stifling a groan himself, he glanced reluctantly at his most recent patient. Ryenne cried out in delight as, miracle of all miracles, Jack opened his eyes.

* * *

It wasn't exactly what Jack had expected Heaven to look like... not that he had ever really expected to get in. Firstly, it looked an awful lot like his cabin aboard the Pearl, which was a far cry from pearly gates and golden streets. Secondly, Quinn was there. But then again, so was Ryenne. She was even smiling at him. So it couldn't possibly be Hell. A sweet, musky smell hung in the air, which was pleasant enough, but the lighting simply didn't convey the idea of "paradise." Rather than putting him in mind of haloed angels and cherubim, it spoke to him of a dank back room and a she-man named Phyllis. Shuddering, he pushed away the memories... er... _thoughts_. No matter. Ryenne was there. That was enough.

"So this is Heaven, is it?" He frowned in Quinn's general direction. "I'd ask how you got here, but I'm still wondering how I managed to sneak in myself."

Ryenne looked puzzled. Personally, Jack couldn't care less how she looked, as long as she was looking at him. Not that she didn't look lovely at the moment. She truly did.

"Jack, you're not dead."

"I'm not?"

"No, you're not." He tried to pick a favorite feature of her face. At first, he thought it was the smiling curve of her lips. Or perhaps the liquid amber of her eyes.

"I am, in fact, alive?"

"Yes." It was her eyes, definitely. Beautiful.

"Then there's something I need to do." He reached up to touch the silky skin of her cheek, to draw her face down to his. How he had been waiting for this moment. He could almost imagine the feel of her lips on his...

She turned away.

"Jack, I can't." His eyes alighted on the lingering bite marks that marred her throat and a lead weight dropped into his stomach. What had he been thinking? _Had_ he been thinking? Of course she couldn't... she wouldn't... A tear rolled down her cheek. He did not have the courage to brush it away.

His voice stuck in his throat. "Ryenne, I -"

"I can't." She fled the room without looking back.

He couldn't believe his stupidity. Physical contact would be the last thing she would want at the moment. Especially from a man. Especially the kind of physical contact he'd been hoping for. He sighed, angry at himself, and let his eyes fall to rest on Quinn. The boy's demeanor was decidedly smug.

"I should have warned you; she doesn't like to be touched." If he hadn't been halfway across the room, Jack would have laid him flat.

"Get out of here, you damned whelp!" He glared at the green mush the boy had been mixing, no doubt the source of the musky odor. "And take your damn herbs with you!"

He wanted to throw something, anything, to chase that smug little grin out the door, but there was nothing within reach. He raised his voice, knowing it would be heard everywhere on deck, despite the fact that he was safely shut up in his cabin. Safe being a relative term, of course.

"Tell Gibbs to get me the bloody hell out of here!"

* * *

Will leaned against the railing of the ship's bow, trying to get as close as possible to the gray mass growing on the horizon. Port Royale. It had been three months. Three long months, full of fear and waiting. He was bursting with impatience. He was going to see Elizabeth again. They had lived; they had survived. And now he was going home. He breathed in the sweetness of the word.

Home.

* * *

"You should come away from the window, Madam. It looks to rain."

Elizabeth ignored the chiding voice of her serving maid, glancing down at the creased and water-stained piece of parchment in her hands. She did not need to read it again - she had already memorized its words, written in Will's familiar scrawl - but she scanned the page nevertheless, eyes searching out those few, promising words.

_God be praised, we are all alive and well. Keep a weather eye on the horizon. We are coming home._

It had been three long weeks since she'd received the letter, but she was far from losing hope. They needed to visit Isla de Muerta, he'd said. Something about Jack and the curse. It mattered little. Will was alive and well, and coming home. She would wait as long as it took.

* * *

Ryenne felt very out of place. Ever since she'd climbed into the dusty black coach (a requirement of Jack's; he was under the impression that none of them were well enough to walk the distance from the harbor to the Turner household, particularly Will), she'd felt uneasy. It wasn't her place to join in the glorious homecoming. She shouldn't have had to bear witness to Elizabeth's tears of frantic joy, forced to acknowledge that it was her fault there was even cause for tears at all, that it was her fault that Will nearly hadn't returned. That it was her fault Will was unable to climb the stairs to his home unaided. Even Elizabeth's joy had not masked the slight tightening of her smile as Ryenne stepped out of the coach. There had been no mistaking the cool distance in her eyes when Jack presented Ryenne, the cause of all the trouble; visibly unharmed where her husband had been lucky to survive. Elizabeth made no effort to extend to Ryenne the warm welcome she bestowed upon Will and Jack. Ryenne did not blame her. She should have been aboard the ship, in the brig, in her cabin, anywhere... not parading her health in front of poor Will's six-months-pregnant wife, abandoned these many weeks. But her presence had been another requirment of Jack's. Ever since their departure from Isla de Muerta, he had been loathe to let her out of his sight. When, after their embarrassing confrontation, she'd refused to return to his cabin, he had dragged himself out onto the deck, testing the limits of his physical well-being, just to be near her. It had been an awkward week. And now, here she was, lodged in the Turner's second-best bedroom, dressed in borrowed finery, and feeling severely out of place.

The first few days had been the hardest. It would have been bad enough, had she only had the nosy, chattery maids and Elizabeth's cold eyes to deal with, but Jack had insisted upon having what he called a "proper physician" examine her. She would have refused, but for Will's nagging agreement. The experience would haunt her for many years more, she was sure. But Quinn, it seemed, had proven a good caretaker, and so she was able to avoid further visits from any kind of physician. Or anyone else, for that matter. She would have welcomed a visit from Quinn, but it seemed that, upon arriving in Port Royale, the boy had disappeared. She doubted Jack would have allowed him a visit, in any case; he had made no secret of his dislike for the young healer. Jack himself had been persistent in his attempts to communicate with her, but so far, she'd been able to avoid any further confrontations. Things were settling into a routine of sorts, which was a small comfort to her. Every morning, a young maid - Mary, she'd called herself - brought breakfast and helped her dress - aid that had, unfortunately, proved rather necessary. The disappearance of her simple shift and the appearance of several other, very complicated garments made Mary's help a necessity. Though the discomfort at such an intimate ritual was nearly unbearable, Mary's simple-minded chattering soon became comfortingly familiar. One morning, Mary's frustrations with a row of tiny buttons had even brought a smile to Ryenne's face, triggered by her memories of a certain blue satin dress, and certain pearl buttons. She might even have laughed, if not for the _other_ memories the exclamations brought.

_Would you look at all these fancy little buttons! It would be a bloody shame to have them torn to pieces..._

The afternoons were passed in tedious solitude, staring out over the bustling city streets. She might have preferred a view of the sea, but settled for what her room's one window offered. People hurried along, absorbed in their mundane tasks. Buying and selling, creating and cleaning up... living their lives. Sometimes a young girl would pass by, giggling and blushing under the attentions of a would-be suitor. Ryenne tried to remember what it was like to feel such uncomplicated affection, to enjoy the feel of a man's eyes upon her. She could not. She did not know if she ever would again.

Sometimes Jack came knocking. She had no idea what she could possibly say to him, and so she never answered. His room was joined to hers by a simple wooden door, but he knew better than to use it. One or two intrusions in the first few days had taught him never to enter without permission. He usually gave up after a few tries. Sometimes he persisted, trying to carry on a conversation through the door. She was hurting him, she knew, but what could she do? She'd seen the yearnings in his eyes. He wanted things she couldn't give. What could she do? She was helpless, frustrated, trapped. Oftentimes, his attempts at visitation left her in tears. She wanted to love him, but she couldn't remember how.

Will never knocked. He didn't need to. He never asked what she could not give, never reminded her of what could not be. He was her brother again. He was the smiling, freckled boy with skinny legs and she was the little girl adorned with ribbons. She could forget with Will. She loved to forget. But the visits were always short. Elizabeth was heavy with child now, and Will could not bear to be separated from her for long.

Elizabeth never visited.

Nighttime was the hardest. After a light supper - brought, of course, by Mary - and another slightly uncomfortable dressing ritual, Ryenne was left alone. It was a different sort of solitude than in the daytime. The darkness pressed in from all sides. She was always terrified the weight of it would snuff out her candle and envelope her in that heavy blackness. Sleep was an elusive creature, hardly a comfort. She had nightmares of the grisliest nature, often awaking, drenched in cold sweat. Tonight was no different.

It began the same way it always did, in the dark alleyway from so long ago. Snow swirled around her, clinging to her eyelashes and soaking into the damp folds of her lavender dress. That dress had been the last present her father had ever given her, expensive velvet, embroidered with flowers. Her favorite color. It didn't look so fancy anymore, the hem tattered and stained with dirt as it was. It hardly mattered. She would die soon anyway. She would freeze to death. Huddling against the rough wooden wall that was her only shelter from the elements, she tried to coax a last spark of warmth into her limbs. A warm fireplace was waiting for her somewhere, she knew, but fear of the lecherous Thomas Alden kept her in the deepest shadows of her forsaken alley. She closed her eyes, succumbing to the freezing air.

And then the voice. _His_ voice.

_Are you lost, miss?_

She looked up, but where should have been a handsome young man with a mop of dark curls, stood a grisly spectre that never failed to haunt her waking hours. Quinn's skin boiled and scorched under the nimbus of flames that danced over his lean figure. His eyes were bloodshot and staring, pools of neverending blackness. His beautiful, cruel lips were split and peeling, leaving his teeth bared in a rictus grin. He raised a maimed hand, beckoning. His voice, once so silky and seductive, rattled in his throat, gravelly. Terrifying.

_I thought you loved me, Ryenne..._

The flesh was melting from his angelic face, melting like candlewax. His eyes rolled back into his skull and his whole body shuddered. His arms searched blindly, reaching for her, clutching at her. The heat was unbearable. The air was being burned from her lungs faster than she could draw it. Quinn's mouth stretched, opening wider and wider, blacker than the night around her. He would swallow her whole...

Ryenne drew a choking breath - her last breath - and screamed.

* * *

Jack awoke as abruptly as if he'd been slapped. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead and his heart thumped wildly in his chest. He blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the heavy darkness that pressed at his eyes. He could have sworn he'd heard...

Bedsheets rustled and someone moaned in fright. His eyes darted to the dim outline of the door that separated his chambers from Ryenne's. A weak flicker of light shone beneath it. But he'd told Mary to blow out Ryenne's bedside candle hours ago, hadn't he? A floorboard creaked, and he held his breath, listening hard. Ryenne's muffled whimper was enough to propel him out of bed and halfway to the door. As his fingers closed over the cool metal of the knob, however, he checked himself. If someone had indeed broken into Ryenne's room, it would do him little good to burst in unarmed. After a moment's deliberation, he snatched up his pistol from the bedstand and exploded through the door. Later he would concede that, perhaps, the more appropriate thing to have grabbed would have been a pair of trousers. At the moment, it seemed irrelevant. Or so he thought.

Ryenne screamed as he burst through the door, bolting upright and clutching her bedcovers protectively around herself. But she was alone. Jack lowered his pistol, feeling foolish. He wondered if he should back out slowly before Ryenne turned those cold eyes on him, but a hasty glance in the direction of the aforementioned had him doing the exact opposite. Ryenne's eyes were frantic and staring, and she seemed to be hyperventilating. Ignoring his better judgement, he hurried to her side. She hadn't even noticed he was there. She had been screaming, locked in her nightmares, before he even opened the door. He knew her loathing of being touched, but he didn't know what else to do. Gripping her firmly by the shoulders, he shook her awake.

"Ryenne! Wake up! Ryenne!"

She woke with a gasp, her eyes darting frantically. Until they settled on his face. He cringed, awaiting her reaction. It caught him completely by surprise. Ryenne burst into tears. She clutched at him like a drowning person, her fingernails clawing deep into his flesh. The shock only lasted a moment. He gathered her into his arms, stowing the pistol hastily under the bed before she could catch sight of it. She shuddered under the force of her own sobs, shivering though the night was unseasonably warm. Her tear-streaked cheek was sticky against his bare chest, but he could not have cared less. He chafed her shoulder with his good right arm, pressing his lips against her hair, inhaling the scent of her. It was something he'd never noticed before, something he'd taken for granted. He never would again. His fingers traced the shell-like curve of her ear, and he murmured soothing noises as her hiccoughing sobs began to quiet. She licked her lips, and for a moment, he swore he had felt the tip of her tongue dart across his skin. He tried to ignore the sudden heat coursing through him, but it was little use. He was abruptly struck with the realization that he could feel the shape of her body beneath her thin nightshift. It was a terrible time to notice such a thing, he knew, but he was only a man.

It was then that he remembered his trouser-less state. He tried to refrain from panicking, as Ryenne seemed to be past noticing. All the same... He drew another deep breath, knowing he must store up these memories... he didn't know when he would get the chance to be so close to her again.

He tried to make his retreat gentle, so he wouldn't draw attention to his nudity, but she noticed all the same. (Not the nudity, that was.) The retreat. She clung tighter.

"Please don't leave me, Jack. Stay with me." He could feel her lips moving against his chest. Sweet torture. Her voice was husky from her tears. "Just for tonight. Please."

His heart leapt in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her once more, relishing the feeling. "Of course."

He shifted minutely, tucking the blankets around them and easing back against the pillows. She nestled against his shoulder, her breath warm across his chest. He stroked her hair, whispering to the darkness, "Of course I will, love."

Determined as he was to savor every minute, his eyelids began to slide shut. Just before he succumbed to sleep, he could have sworn he heard her say, her voice light and teasing...

"Don't call me love."


	53. The Woman Who Wasn't Ryenne

Pale morning sunlight filtered in through the window of Ryenne's chamber, falling just a few feet short of where Jack still lay, tangled in a light blue coverlet and smiling quietly. He was a happier man than he had been in months. The reason for his happiness was currently nestled against his side, where she had been all night. Ryenne sighed in her sleep and edged closer, her warm breath tickling his ribs. Despite the urge to flinch that the sensation produced, he remained perfectly still, not wanting to wake her and destroy this peaceful moment. Just laying next to her, a hand twined in her sleep-tousled hair, was more satisfying than any other moment he had spent in the arms of a woman. He had been with many different women throughout the years – different meaning various, but also..._unusual_ – but none of them were, well... Ryenne. There was something very unique about her. Her touch, her presence, seemed almost sacred somehow. The feel of her hair, the silken gold of her skin, was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was exhilarating. And they hadn't even made love. Not even close. This was enough for now.

Not that he didn't _want _to make love to her; just the opposite, in fact. He wanted to very much. It simply wasn't the most important thing to him at the moment. At this moment, all he wanted was to be near her, to hear her deep, even breathing. Emotionally, mentally, that was all he wanted. Physically...

_Oh, bloody hell..._

Physically, he couldn't control himself. He needed to leave before she woke, or he would be forced to face the awkwardness that would most certainly result. After all, his attire was very... _sparse_ at the moment. Nonexistent was a good word for it. Fortunately, he had the impression that Ryenne had not noticed this particular fact the previous night. He was certain that, had she noticed, she would have mentioned it. But there was no possible way she would overlook his current... _physical reaction_ to their closeness. And she would, of course, have a reaction of her own. Most likely an unfavorable one. An immediate exit was definitely necessary. How to escape without actually waking her was the problem. She currently had his right arm pinioned beneath her and was showing no signs that she would be moving any time soon. He hadn't noticed that it had fallen asleep, but now the sensation of pins and needles was an unpleasant reminder that he was trapped.

_Come on, love. Roll over!_ Ryenne did not comply. In fact, she did the exact opposite of rolling over, instead burrowing her cheek into the hollow of his shoulder. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a sleepy smile, mocking him. He sighed. _Damn my good looks and chivalrous attitude towards crying women._ As if his looks had had anything to do with the matter. She had been having a nightmare – any familiar face would have been a comfort to her. She would have asked Gibbs to stay, had he been the one present upon her awakening. Well... maybe not _Gibbs_. Will, most definitely. But Will wouldn't have stayed; he would have gone back to Elizabeth and left Ryenne to herself. And Will would have had the good sense to put on some clothes before coming to investigate. Therefore, Will would never have been caught in the situation Jack now found himself in. As to chivalry...

"Jack?"

_Uh oh... _He only needed to turn his head a fraction of an inch to see Ryenne's eyes fluttering open. _Too late now._

"Yes?" His voice came out sounding slightly strangled. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What is it, love?"

He felt her flinch at the use of the pet name – and winced himself – but she showed no further signs of movement. That was a good sign, wasn't it? That she didn't want to break the moment, either? He just needed to stay still. Perhaps she wouldn't notice...

"What are you doing here?"

Of course. Of _course _she wouldn't remember asking him to stay. His situation was just getting worse and worse, wasn't it?

"You had a nightmare, lov-Ryenne. You asked me to stay." _Please, please let her remember!_

She was silent for a moment, unmoving. Jack held his breath.

"I thought I'd dreamed that."

His breath came out in a relieved whoosh. "Ah. You dream about me often, then?" He tried to make his voice light and teasing. It had the desired effect.

"_No._" That familiar defensive edge came into her voice, and she rolled away from him, moving to sit at the far edge of the bed. He checked to make sure the blankets still fully covered his lower half and propped himself up on his stiff right arm. It took him a moment to realize that she was watching him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He gave her what he hoped was a disarming smile.

"What sort of dreams do you have about me?"

"I told you: I _don't_." She folded her arms across her chest, nodding at the door that separated her room from his. It was still slightly ajar. So close, and yet so far. "You wouldn't mind leaving, would you? I'm not... _decent._" A slight blush rose on her cheeks at the word. It was nothing to the one forming on Jack's own face.

"Well, I... er..." He gave the coverlet a small tug, tucking it tighter yet around his waist. Ryenne's eyes followed the motion, narrowing even further. He could almost see the realization forming on her features.

"Jack, are you...?" Her mouth closed on the word, and she frowned. "_Why_ are you...?"

He wondered whether his ears would set fire to his hair. They certainly _felt_ hot enough to do it.

"Well, you see... I thought that someone had broken into your room, and -"

"Broken into my room?"

"Yes! You were... _whimpering_... and I didn't pause to think about... I thought I needed to... er... rescue you, I suppose." Was that a smirk forming on her face? He stammered on, hoping for a miracle that would transport him from her bed to his without exposing... well... _anything._ "There just wasn't enough time to... uh..."

She was definitely smirking now. "I see."

He cleared his throat, for lack of anything better to do. His eyes darted frantically about, searching for an escape route of some kind. They found the linen privacy screen tucked unobtrusively into a corner. He was unclear of its exact use, as the type of women he was used to didn't put much stock in things like modesty; it simply didn't fit with their profession. He knew that it had something to do with privacy, and that was all. It would have to do.

"Ryenne, love, you wouldn't mind stepping behind the... er..." He pointed, ignoring her attempts to stifle a laugh. He would have been pleased at this new change in her demeanor, had it not been at his expense. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and her eyes sparkled.

"Of course." Her voice was strained, but she was quick enough to comply. The hem of her night shift disappeared around the corner of the screen in a flash, a strange coughing the only evidence that she was still in the room. Always a suspicious man, Jack made sure the coverlet was wrapped tightly about his waist before he stood and edged toward the door. He was safe.

Or would have been, had he not tripped on a trailing edge. The realization that he had inadvertently stripped himself bare once again hit him a split second before the floor did. Abandoning any remaining shred of dignity he might have been able to wrangle up – and using words in his vocabulary that would have made a less hardened sailor blush – he scrambled to his feet and sprinted the last few steps that separated him from the safety of his own room. The door slammed behind him, but it could not drown out Ryenne's echoing peal of laughter. She would never let him live this down.

Jack sighed, allowing himself a grudging smile. It could have gone worse. At least she was speaking to him again.

* * *

Ryenne was still fighting giggles when Mary came in, carrying her usual tray of tea and toast. If the young maid was confused by this sudden change in behavior, she was careful not to show it; her face sported its customary overtly-cheery smile. Ryenne couldn't help but smile back. She knew she should have felt horrified – or, at the very least, embarrassed – by the incident between her and Jack, but she couldn't seem to work up anything other than amusement. Her last encounter with a naked man had left her battered and broken in so many more ways than one, but this encounter with Jack had been anything but threatening. In fact, she had never seen him quite so helpless or uncomfortable. There had been nothing cold or predatory about him; he had been all bewilderment and sheepishness. He was nothing to fear. He was all that was familiar in this unfamiliar place. Those moments between waking and sleeping, where all she had felt was the warmth of his skin on hers, were the most comforting she had had in weeks. In those moments, she had remembered what it was like to feel that simple affection she had so envied in the strangers on the street outside her window. She hadn't wanted to wake up and let go; she wanted him that close always. The sweet words, the gentle caresses... she wanted those too. But she was afraid. She was remembering how to love, and it scared her.

"You're in a good mood today, Miss Ryenne."

Mary's voice and the tug of corset lacings interrupted her thoughts. She was already half-dressed and hadn't even noticed. Shaking her head at her own inattentiveness, she let herself soak in the emotions she thought she had forgotten. Happiness, contentment, even a certain recklessness. She smiled.

"Yes." The incident was far too personal to share. "I had a pleasant dream last night – very pleasant."

"Oh?" Mary's curiosity was like a tang in the air, but Ryenne ignored it. Instead, she studied the simple breakfast tray the girl had brought. One teacup, one plate, one solitary chair pulled up to the table... A very lonely arrangement. Too lonely. There was no good reason for it.

"I think I'll take my breakfast with the others this morning."

Mary's hands paused on the laces. "Are you sure, Miss?"

"Of course I am." Despite her best efforts, Ryenne heard her voice shake with nerves. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I'll wear the lavender today, I think."

The steady tug of the corset came back, efficient and smooth as ever. "Whatever you say, Miss."

Ryenne watched her reflection in the mirror as the young maid worked, examining a face she no longer recognized. There were new scars. A faint pink line, fine as a cobweb, traced the line of her left cheekbone. No doubt Mary had long since noticed the more dramatic criss-cross of whip scars on her back, old and new melding to leave no inch unmarked. They no longer pained her, but she did not need to feel them to know they were there. Her skin had paled and softened in the past few weeks, her old callouses fading to nothing. If not for the scars, she might have resembled Carolyn, the spoiled young noble with glossy black hair and porcelain features. But she was not Carolyn.

Neither was she Ryenne. Ryenne was brash and reckless. Adventurous. Ryenne wore trousers and scrambled around the decks of pirate ships, was tanned and calloused in every place it was possible to be tanned and calloused. Ryenne did not wear corsets and petticoats, did not worry about the state of her hair or her dress. Ryenne would not even have considered hiding out alone in her room for weeks; the cabin fever would have driven her mad. No, this person in the mirror was not Ryenne. It was someone new and different and unfamiliar.

"You're all finished, Miss." Mary stepped back and curtsied, her wide blue eyes curious and cautious.

The woman-who-was-not-Ryenne took one last look in the mirror, smoothing her lavender skirts and arranging a pleasant smile onto her features. A new woman deserved a new start. And she would have one.

* * *

In another part of the house – namely, the dining room – Will fumed. He sighed irritably and leaned back in his chair, pushing away his untouched breakfast. His shoulders had begun to throb, but he ignored them. The note Mary had brought in only a few minutes earlier was now crumpled in his fist, its neat calligraphy starkly contrasting with the rampantly untidy – and decidedly vicious – creases that marred its once-flawless ivory vellum surface. Its words still danced before his mind's eye, taunting him.

_William,_

_Word of your improving health has reached me, and I would very much like a chance to congratulate you on your recent safe return – and hear tell of your journey, of course. I have heard some interesting rumors concerning the nature of your departure; rumors which you, I am certain, would like to eradicate personally._

_You may expect me on Thursday, next, at seven o'clock sharp. I have also been told that you are entertaining some rather unusual guests. I look forward to meeting them in person._

_Cordially,_

_ James Norrington_

_ Commodore_

"Well, this is a fine time he chooses to visit!" Across the table from him, creases to mirror those of the letter formed between Elizabeth's brows.

"He's bound to be curious, Will. You vanished for weeks, without explanation and without your wife. Of course he'll think Jack is involved." Her stern expression softened into a wry smile. "And he wouldn't be wrong, either."

"But you _told_ him I went to England on family business, didn't you?"

"I did, but the state you came home in hardly lends truth to that story." The smile faded. "And you and Jack did cause quite a scene at our Christmas party. In front of numerous witnesses."

Will smoothed out a crease and read. "'_I have also been told that you are entertaining some rather unusual guests._' Who told him we have guests? Neither Jack, nor Ryenne, has been outside this house since we got back!" Had he been looking at her, he would have seen Elizabeth's mouth tighten at the sound of Ryenne's name. As he wasn't, he didn't, and continued on in the oblivious way only the extremely unobservant can. "Ryenne will be fine – he'll never recognize her – but what about Jack? The _Pearl_ only just departed three days ago; they won't even be halfway to Tortuga -"

"I still don't understand why he sent them away. Doesn't he worry that they won't come back?"

"Gibbs wouldn't stoop to mutiny... again." Will waved a careless hand, re-crumpling the offending letter and tossing it onto the table. "It wasn't safe for the_ Pearl_ to linger in port with Norrington home; she's too distinctive. And Jack couldn't leave without Ryenne."

"So why not take her with him? She hasn't any injuries that would prevent her from traveling." Even at his most obtuse, Will could not have missed the chilly tone of his wife's voice. It's cause, too, was more than obvious.

"Elizabeth," he reached across the table to take her hand. "None of this was her fault. I've been trying to convince her of that for weeks, and it doesn't help if I have you doubting me, too!"

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "But you almost _died_, Will! It would never have happened if she hadn't -"

"Lizzy, look at me! I'm not dead. I'm perfectly healthy -"

She snorted.

"- well, maybe not_ perfectly_ healthy, but I _am_ getting better." He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, smiling gently. "Besides, it isn't as if anyone _forced _me to go after her. I c_hose_ to go."

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you go after her?" A shadow of accusation crossed her face. "As I recall, you were in love with the last woman you risked your life for."

"And I married her." Will couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of his wife's concerns. From her darkening expression, he assumed she did not take this well. "Elizabeth, if _that_ is what this is all about, then I -"

It was at that moment that Jack decided to make his grand entrance. At least, it would have been grand, had he not seemed so twitchy and off-balance. Embarrassed. Sheepish, even.

"Good morning, Lord and Lady Turner!" Despite his nervous exterior, Jack's voice sounded a great deal heartier than it had in weeks. For some inexplicable reason, it made Will suspicious. "How goes it with thee on this fine spring..." He trailed off, seeing the looks on their faces. "Am I interrupting something?"

Will smiled tightly, annoyed at the abrupt end to his conversation. He would have to deal with Elizabeth later. They had bigger problems at the moment.

"We've got trouble, Jack." He nudged the balled-up letter toward the other man, not bothering to unfold it; Jack was quick enough to do that himself. Will watched his dark eyes travel down the paper, pausing on the signature. That damned, smug signature.

"Norrington." Jack's mouth twisted over the name. "I guessed we would have trouble with him sooner or later."

"Unfortunately for us, it's sooner."

Jack nodded gravely. "The timing couldn't be worse. I need to figure something out, before the two of you end up in -"

Again, Will's inattentiveness to Elizabeth's moods caused trouble. Had he been paying attention, he might have seen her swelling with rage at Jack's words. But he didn't.

Her mouth opened, and what came out was this:

"You _idiot_!"

Her words were greeted with a brief, tense silence. Will didn't know what to say. It was Jack who finally broke the quiet, his voice soft and incredulous.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sending the _Pearl _away at a time like this has to be the least intelligent thing you have ever done, Jack Sparrow!" Elizabeth's voice was sharp with bad temper and the raging of very imbalanced, very pregnant, humours. "And that is saying quite a lot."

Jack had the grace to look stung. "Elizabeth Turner! That may have been the most unnecessarily venomous thing you have ever said to me. And_ that_ is saying a lot."

"How _dare_ you!"

"How dare I _what_?" Despite the increasingly cold tone of his voice, he managed to remain calm. Will envied him that. "You threw the first stone, as I recall."

"I'll throw a lot more than that!"

Will was trying very hard not to lose his temper; it was like trying to keep water inside a sieve. In his defense, he was already under a good deal of pressure at the moment.

"Stop it! You're both being ridiculous!"

They continued on as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"How _dare_ you come here and put us in danger like this!?"

Jack snorted. "Norrington hardly constitutes what I would call 'danger.' At least not to _you_, Mrs. Turner."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't it Norrington who had you in a noose last time you were in Port Royale? You'd be dead if Will hadn't saved your sorry hide!" Elizabeth's face shone with something that resembled triumph. "So, yes, I'd say Norrington qualifies as dangerous. To wretched pirates, in any case."

Will decided he would try again.

"You're acting like children!" As he watched his wife open her mouth to snarl a reply, he could feel the atmosphere tensing for that last reckless dive into chaos. It wasn't really a surprise. Jack and Elizabeth had been at odds for weeks – they never had gotten along all that well. All they needed was that final shove. Norrington was the shove. Now came the storm.

Elizabeth's face was a thundercloud. She had one hand placed protectively over her swollen belly, the other curled into a fist around her spoon. She looked as though she were about to spit venom. Jack got there first.

"You bloody _traitor_."

That caught her off-guard. "_What?_"

"You sold us out to Norrington, didn't you?" He brandished the battered note at her, his eyebrows diving into deep furrows. "Told him you have some 'rather unusual guests,' did you?"

"I would _never_ -"

"You would just _love_ to see Ryenne dragged off to gaol, wouldn't you?"

Will thought this was going a bit too far, and he was just about to say so.

And then Ryenne walked in.

* * *

The instant Ryenne stepped into the dining room, she wished she hadn't. The place was a tableau of chaos. Jack's face had frozen at the sight of her, a mask of shock and fading fury. A much-abused piece of parchment was clenched in his fist, which trembled slightly. Will looked little better, hunched over his breakfast in a manner that was more defeated than hungry. It was Elizabeth's face that disturbed her most. The beautiful young mother-to-be was crouched like a tiger, ready to spring... at Jack. However, upon Ryenne's entrance, her attention had refocused. Ryenne suddenly remembered why she had remained closeted in her room for so long; the outside world was dangerous. Upon seeing the wild threats in the other woman's eyes, words eluded her.

But not Jack, apparently.

"Good morning, Ryenne, love." He twisted his lips into a badly-formed grin. "Pleasant... er... weather we're having, isn't it?"

The absurdity of this comment threw her so completely off-balance that she forgot to reprimand him for using that awful pet name. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, trying to think of something intelligent to say. Nothing came to mind. So she said the only thing that _did _come to mind.

"Am I interrupting something?" Anyone could plainly see that something – something extremely volatile – had been interrupted, but it seemed the proper thing to ask, so she asked. She _really_ wanted to ask what in the bloody hell was going on, but that seemed impolite.

Elizabeth, it seemed, was not concerned with impropriety.

"Yes, you are. Please leave." Her tone was decidedly cold, each word an icicle in itself. It was the first outright show of contempt she had directed at Ryenne. Strangely enough, it felt like a challenge. Before she could even begin to respond, however, Will decided to speak.

"Now, Elizabeth, she's got as much right as any of us to know what's going on." He made a minute gesture at Jack and speared a sausage with unnecessary force. Ryenne was sure that, had it been able, it would have squealed in pain.

What had she gotten herself into?

As if to answer her unspoken question, Jack proffered the battered scrap of parchment he'd been holding. It appeared to be some kind of note. Their fingers brushed when she reached to take it, and she found she was delighted to see him blush. It was a vulnerability Quinn had never shown. It gave him an innocence, a sweetness, knowing he was embarrassed about what had transpired between them that morning. It made the idea of loving him a great deal less intimidating.

All it took to shatter her mood was a glance at the letter in her hands. Or, more accurately, the _signature_ on the letter in her hands. _James Norrington, Commodore._ She didn't need to read the rest to know that it meant trouble, but she read it anyway. Rumors. Unusual guests. A visit from the Commodore, who would be sure to recognize – and arrest – Jack on sight. Captain Jack Sparrow was, after all, an infamous name around these parts. She was just lucky that Captain Ryenne Caelar wasn't; her association with the _Silver Gryphon_ had been hardly more than a bad joke. The fact that the _Silver Gryphon_ had once attacked the _Dauntless_ mattered little, because it would only be remembered as that – one ship firing on another. She was safe... but Jack...

"Jack, you have to leave! As soon as possible!" She wanted to reach out, grab him, shake him, demand to know why he hadn't already left for port. The look on his face stopped her. He seemed... sheepish? "What's wrong? Why haven't you left yet?"

Across the room, Elizabeth made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a snort. "Because, he sent the _Pearl_ away, the idiot that he is."

"Sent the _Pearl_ away? Why?"

Jack wouldn't meet her eyes. "She's too distinctive. Norrington would have spotted her and known we were here. I had no choice."

Ryenne couldn't believe her ears. "No choice? What do you mean, 'no choice?' Why didn't you sail out with her?" But before she even finished the sentence, she knew. She knew why he wouldn't look at her, why he hadn't sailed, why he was putting himself in danger like this. Because he had been waiting. For her.

Elizabeth was right: he was an_ idiot_.

Will must have seen the direction her thoughts were headed, as he was suddenly an active member of the conversation once again. "It doesn't matter _why_ you two are here while the _Pearl_ is halfway to Tortuga; it's too late for that. What does matter is how to keep Norrington from _knowing_ that it is you who is here."

"It doesn't matter if he knows _I'm_ here; he wouldn't know me from a fig. It's _Jack_ I'm worried about." She glared at Jack, who suddenly became deeply interested in his boots. "Norrington will have him off to gaol quicker than we can blink."

"Unless he doesn't recognize Jack." A grin spread across Elizabeth's face – a frighteningly abrupt change in temperament, as far as Ryenne was concerned.

"Impossible."

"Let me explain." The other woman had finally relaxed out of her feline crouch, reclining smugly in her chair. "Norrington was told that Will was gone on family business. Why should he need to believe anything different?"

Jack caught on the quickest. "Ah, yes. After all, it isn't unusual for a person to have unusual family members, who eventually become 'unusual guests.'"

Will still hadn't released his captive sausage. "But we aren't related, Jack."

Elizabeth was beginning to look put-upon once again. "You don't need to be related, you daft man. We only need to make Norrington _believe_ that you are."

Ryenne smiled as a certain memory flooded her mind. Jack, clean and debonair, ready to attend a Christmas party; so clean and debonair that she hadn't recognized him. Not at first, anyway.

"It would take a great deal of disguising to make Jack unrecognizable," she hazarded.

Elizabeth's smug smile returned. "You'd be surprised what a haircut, a shave, and a change of clothes can do for a man." Ryenne couldn't help but notice Elizabeth's pointed look at Will as she said this. Will pretended not to notice.

Jack, however, did notice. A grimace spread across his face like a dark cloud. "I'm not going to enjoy this, am I, Will?"

"No, Jack, you aren't going to enjoy this."


	54. George and Carolyn

Jack was having a great deal of trouble recognizing the man in the mirror. He knew it had to be him - he recognized his own muddy brown eyes, could place every one of the tiny scars his beard usually covered - but the horrible realization simply would not sink in. The poncy git who was staring at him with such a shocked expression was - had to be - the subject of an incredibly life-like, mirror-shaped painting, not his reflection. It couldn't be. This man did not look fit to sail on a ship, let alone captain one. This man looked like the type of man who would be seasick before he even left the harbor. This man could not be Captain Jack Sparrow. He looked like some ninny of a banker, some coddled aristocrat. He looked like...

Norrington.

He thought he might be sick.

Elizabeth had most definitely taken out her revenge with the scissors. His hair, which had once hung past his shoulders, now merely brush his cheekbones. Or rather, _had_ been brushing his cheekbones; now it was oiled back, sleek and reeking of something that had a wafting, musty type of odor. It was more awful than he could ever have imagined. The hair alone would have been bad enough, but Elizabeth's revenge extended further than that. Thus, the tiny scars his beard usually covered were exposed. Because there was nothing there to cover them any longer. Elizabeth had, at least, conceeded to let him do the shaving himself, for which he was extremely grateful. he was not quite sure he would have trusted her with an open blade so close to his neck, not yet. Possibly not ever. Angry women with sharp objects were just homicides waiting to happen, in his book, and he was not ready to die.

He understood her anger. She and Will had been living a quiet, pleasant life up until he had decided to visit: Will had taken over the smithy, they owned a charming house and were expecting their first child... things had been going perfectly. Now they were both dancing in the shadow of the noose. They were harboring a wanted man, after all, and though Jack highly doubted Norrington would ever have the stomach to hang Elizabeth, the man had never exactly been fond of Will. She was right to be worried and angry. Since Jack's return, she had been threatened with widowhood more times than she even knew; whether he liked it or not, he had to acknowledge her right to be angry. With him, of course. And possibly even with Will. But no one would be right to harbor a grudge against Ryenne, poor girl. In that, Elizabeth was so very wrong. She was, however, right in insisting that, at the moment, making sure Norrington didn't recognize Jack was key. But this...

This was wrong.

"Wasn't there something else you could have done? Beaten me black and blue? Maimed me beyond recognition?" Maimed in a different sense of the word; he already considered himself maimed. If he had known he would have to subject himself to such extreme physical disfigurement, he would have opted for something more... masculine. _This_ was simply humiliating.

Elizabeth's smile had more than a hint of smugness to it. That - and the fact that she had yet to put away her scissors - made him nervous. Her tone, however, was genuinely enthusiastic.

"You look wonderful, Jack. Like a gentleman."

Will's response was less so. Jack wondered if it had anything to do with the way he was nervously scrubbing a hand through his own shaggy mop of hair. "Well... you do look different."

"I look like a poncy git." There was no point in denying the truth.

"It's the suit," Will reassured him. "You'll get used to it."

"I hope not." Jack studied the powder blue monstrosity he had been forced to don and sighed. "I suppose the ruffles are necessary?"

Elizabeth's eyes twinkled. "Oh, absolutely."

He sighed again and turned from his reflection, eyes searching for the one person who had remained silent throughout the entire ordeal, the one person whose opinion truly mattered to him. She was tucked against the wall, her hands hidden in the folds of her velvet skirt and a thoughtful expression on her face. He felt naked and anxious under that familiar gaze. Then she smiled. It was a hesitant smile, shy and full of sweetness. His heart leapt in his chest.

"You look younger."

That was a compliment, wasn't it?

"Thank you." She blushed and lowered her eyes. Her hand twitched to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from her borrowed gown. He wanted to catch it in his own, wanted to kiss each fingertip. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at the mirror once more and ran a hang along his now-smooth jawline. He did look younger. He could pass for a man in his middle-twenties. A man Will's age.

A man Ryenne's age.

For the first time, Jack realized how very young Ryenne was - at least ten years his junior, perhaps more. The realization hit him like a fist. How old he must seem to her. He was still a man in his prime, yes, but she was a woman in the flower of her youth. A woman with prospects, with a future. Even without their age difference, what could he possibly have to offer her? He was a wanted man, a salty sea dog who would never be able to settle down and establish a home, who would always be on the run. He could never be a proper husband. A pirate could never be anything but a pirate; it was all they knew. Ryenne would want no more of that life, not after the damage it had done her. She would want what Elizabeth had, what all women eventually came to crave: a lovely home, a respectable husband, a family... things Jack could not give. His heart sank like a stone into the pit of his stomach. He had been right all along: Ryenne could never choose him. Ryenne would never be his. The pretty blush, the sweet smile... they would belong to another. He could hardly stand the idea.

As if she could sense these thoughts, Ryenne was suddenly beside him, slipping a tentative hand into the crook of his elbow. He should have been thrilled - it was the first time she had willingly touched him in months - but he couldn't force a smile onto his lips. He could only stare, transfixed, at their side-by-side reflections and try not to picture her on the arm of another man. It was difficult. In staring, he couldn't help but notice how very similar they looked. Both dark-haired with the memory of sun and sea on their skin, both so very awkward in their borrowed finery. Even her unusual amber eyes were not so very different from his own gold-flecked brown. She could have passed for his sister, as much as _that_ notion bothered him.

Unfortunately for him, Elizabeth seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"It's thankful the three of you look so similar," she said, nudging Will over to stand next to the two of them. "It'll make it easier for you to pass for family. Cousins would be best, I think."

"Maternal cousins," Will amended, grinning that familiar sheepish grin. "As my paternal side consists mainly of pirate stock."

Jack chuckled weakly. "Of course."

"Maternal cousins, then. Your mother had a brother, didn't she, Will?"

"An older brother," Will supplied. "George, I think his name was. I can't be sure. I only met him once or twice when I was a nipper."

"And I would, no doubt, be named for my father? As a sort of Turner family tradition?"

"Well -"

"George is sufficiently pompous." Jack forced another weak chuckle. "It'll do."

"And me?" Ryenne's voice was hesitant, as if she were loathe to remind them of her presence. Will fixed her with a smug sort of smirk.

"You'll be Carolyn, George's sweet little wife."

The word sent a thrill down Jack's spine. Behind his reflection, he thought he saw Elizabeth throwing Will a grimace, but he it hardly mattered. Ryenne was smiling that shy smile once again. Was she as pleased by their make-believe marriage as he was? He could hardly dare hope. He tried to force some nonchalance into his voice, confidence into his tone. He failed in the most fantastic way.

"George and Carolyn Turner, then, eh?"

Will's smirk was evident even in his tone. He knew what he had done. "No, not Turner. This would be my _mother_'_s_ side of the family."

Jack was in no mood to be baited. "Well, what was your mother's surname, then?" He thought he saw Ryenne catching her breath. He didn't have to wait long to hear why.

"My mother's maiden name... was Caelar."

* * *

Ryenne hadn't expected - after her brave decision to venture into the world outside her borrowed bedroom - to return to her self-imposed prison so quickly. And yet, here she was, huddled in the corner behind her linen privacy screen, both doors firmly bolted against any intruders. It was a necessary precaution; the expression that had clouded Elizabeth's features as she stormed out of Jack's room had been... well, it hadn't been pleasant. She had reason to be unpleasant; if memory served, Ryenne had not been the only one to pilfer a surname from Will's family tree. Of course, the end result had been very different for the last woman to do so. Despite what Elizabeth might have thought, Ryenne hadn't meant anything by the gesture. The name had simply been the first to pop into her head the night she'd fallen in with Quinn. She hadn't wanted to give him her true name for some reason, and she never had. She had shed every element of her old life in that one moment... or so she had thought. The action hadn't required much thought until now. Now, when it was going to cause her so much trouble. Oh yes, there would be trouble. Elizabeth's face had foretold as much. And Jack... she hadn't paused long enough to gauge his reaction.

What would Jack think? What would he say?

She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her forehead against them. She was tired of being inundated with memories, tired of feeling as though she was never completely herself. Tired of not knowing what was going to happen, or what her role would be. She wanted, for the first time in a long time, a measure of security in her life. She wanted to feel at home.

There was a knock at the door, hesitant at first, then gaining boldness. She didn't need to ask to know who was there. She sighed.

"Leave me alone." She pressed her face into her knees until she saw stars. "I want to be alone." It wasn't true.

Jack's voice was surprisingly patient, for Jack.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ryenne. Open the door."

"I know you must hate me; you needn't pretend otherwise." She heard his sigh.

"Ryenne, I don't want to repeat myself."

"Then don't. Just go away."

"I'll break this door down if I have to."

That got her attention, and she started slightly, raising her head to peer around the screen at the door. The doorknob rattled threateningly. She was on her feet before she even had the chance to think about moving.

"Don't you _dare_."

"Then don't make me," he snapped back.

She growled in frustration. Nothing was going to keep that man out if he didn't want to be kept out. He was persistent that way. She crossed the room in a few short - albeit hesitant - strides, brushing down her lavender skirts and straightening them self-consciously. Then she opened the door.

Jack was standing on the other side, as she knew he would be, and they spent a long, awkward moment eyeing each other. Then he brushed by her and into the room. Nervous as she was, she couldn't help but raise a sardonic eyebrow.

"Well, do come in, by all means."

He rolled his eyes, then cleared his throat.

"What was all that in there?"

"All _what_?" Just because she had opened the door didn't mean she was going to make the rest of it easy for him.

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

She glowered at him, still unable to get over how completely different he looked. The clean line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, so close to smiling even in his annoyance... they seemed completely new, and yet achingly familiar. Her eyes trailed to the place where his collar opened to reveal the hollow at the base of his throat. She wondered what it would be like to plant a kiss there...

"_Ryenne_."

She blushed, forgetting her glower as his reprimand drew her out of her reverie. It took her a moment to remember the reason they were standing there in the first place. Horribly enough, he noticed. His tone softened immediately.

"What's wrong, love?" He reached out to touch her arm, and then seemed to change his mind. She wished he hadn't. "Why did you run? What's the matter?"

She felt strangely close to tears. "You're not angry with me?"

He looked confused for a moment, and then closed his eyes, understanding. When he opened them again, they were filled with tenderness.

"No," he said simply.

Before she could stop herself, she was moving towards him, moving so that she was nearly pressed against him, his scent at that proximity heady and terrifying. It didn't stop her, though, as she reached a hand up to touch his neck, his cheek, drawing them closer. His eyes glazed slightly and his breathing hitched just once, and then... He put a hand on her shoulder, not quite pushing her away, but holding her back.

"I'm not angry, Ryenne," his voice was soft, but firm. "But I _do_ want to know what's going on."

She closed her eyes in embarrassment and turned away, trying to quell the spreading warmth on her cheeks. What had she done? She was such a fool!

And then the tears came.

"I didn't _mean_ to choose that name, it just sort of happened - Quinn asked who I was, and there was snow in his hair and not enough time to think and I didn't know what to do and I needed something that wasn't me, and - Jack, I was desperate and it was a long time ago and now Elizabeth will _hate_ me and she has every right to, but what kind of name would Carolyn have been for pirating _anyway_, not that I knew that that was where I was going to end up, but... but..." She trailed off, slightly out of breath.

His eyes had glossed slightly once again, this time from what seemed to be pure confusion. He gave his head a quick shake and smiled - somewhat bewilderedly - down at her.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to repeat that, love. _Slowly_."

* * *

Jack closed the door gently behind him, walked a short way down the hall, and leaned against the wall, shaking his head. When he had finally gotten the whole story out of Ryenne - it had taken her a while to become fully coherent - he had had a hard time not alerting her to the fact that it still didn't make much sense to him. Of course, he understood the basics: how Ryenne had chosen the first surname to come into her mind when she first began her new life, and how that name had just happened to be that of Will's mother. It had upset Elizabeth because of her own adventures in pseudonymity, and, given how fiercely protective she was of Will, the fact that he had just risked his life several times over the course of the last couple of months to save Ryenne's hardly sat well with her.

But as far as Jack could tell, the past was the past. No one had been irrevocably hurt by Ryenne's choice of names, no matter how unfortunate, and he really was going to have to have words with Elizabeth about unnecessarily upsetting her when her mental health was still so fragile. Beyond that, Ryenne's past was still a jumble to him. Judging by the state of her, it was as bad as his worst fears, but he couldn't imagine what -

An ear-tearing shriek ripped through the house. He jumped, then sprinted down the hall to where he had left Elizabeth and Will earlier. Elizabeth was on the floor, Will supporting as best he could.. Her face was red, tears trickling out of the corners of her eyes, which were squeezed shut.

Will looked up at him where he stood in the doorway, frozen.

"For God's sake, Jack, get a doctor! She's going into labor!"

His words had a galvanizing effect, and Jack turned on his heel and ran back to Ryenne's room, bursting in the door. She was standing almost where he had left her, her eyes wide.

"Jack, what's-"

He grabbed her by the arm and began towing her out the door. Fortunately, she didn't resist.

"Elizabeth's going into labor. We're going to get a doctor, and then we are not coming back until it's over."

"But don't you think she needs people to help-"

"Not coming back until it's over," he reiterated through gritted teeth. They were going out of the front door just as another bloodcurdling scream came from upstairs, and Jack flinched involuntarily.

Undead pirates, deadly storms, and diabolical villains were one thing.

But a woman giving birthÉwell, that was entirely another.


	55. The Trap

Ryenne gasped in pain as she stumbled for what seemed like the hundredth time during their harried flight, twisting her already-aching ankle yet again. She couldn't bend to massage the stabbing pains out of it, however, because - as with the many other times - Jack did not stop. He didn't even seem to notice, just continued to drag her along at a breakneck speed. If Ryenne had thought that she'd seen the full spectrum of Jack's emotional compass over the past few months - and he had had cause enough to show it - she was terribly mistaken. She had never seen him like this. His face was awash with panic and his hand was like a vise on hers. He seemed gripped in some kind of trance. He noticed nothing - not her stumbles, not her attempts to question him, not even the faces of the people who openly stared at their passage. Ryenne could not blame them for staring. What a sight the two of them must have been, dressed in fine clothes and chasing through the streets as if pursued. The truth was, they were _in _pursuit. Of exactly what, she wasn't sure. A doctor, most likely. The question was, did Jack know where to find one?

"Do you have any idea where you're going?" She didn't actually expect an answer, so when she received one, it caught her so off-guard that she almost tripped again.

"Not entirely," Jack's voice was as terse and harried as his pace. "But it would help me greatly if you would stop acting like dead weight and keep an eye out."

She tried to ignore the insult along with the sharp pains now roaring up and down her right leg. "An eye out for what, exactly?"

"A midwife, a doctor, an apothecary... anything!"

Ryenne stumbled on her ridiculous house slippers yet again, and was rewarded with a rough jerk to her wrist, compliments of Jack. Her temper flared. "Look - there's something."

"What!?" Jack whirled around frantically, only to meet the bewildered stare of a chubby little man selling apricots. "A fruit vendor?" The man shrugged apologetically.

Ryenne mustered up her best impression of Jack's impish grin, baring her teeth a little more savagely than was probably necessary. "You did say 'anything.'"

His eyes held thunder. "This isn't a game, Ryenne! Every moment we lose could be putting Elizabeth in more danger!"

"Women have babies all the time, Jack."

"What would you know about it?"

"What would _you_ know about it?"

"I know a damn sight more than you do!" Jack seemed only barely able to contain himself to a growl. "Now, come! Enough of this nonsense! I -" His gaze dropped, falling on Ryenne's uneven hobble. "Why are you limping?"

"Why don't you give it a guess?" She raised the hem of her skirt a fraction, giving him a glimpse of the impractical heeled house slippers Elizabeth had lent her, and scowled.

Guilt suffused his features. "Perhaps we should continue at a more... reasonable pace?"

"If I can continue at all."

He was quiet for a moment, considering her in a manner Ryenne found most discomfiting. Then, before she could guess what he was doing or even attempt to stop him, he put one arm around her waist and one behind her knees and - literally - swept her off her feet. Their faces were so close that she could see the shock on her own face mirrored in his eyes, which were still scanning the marketplace somewhat frantically.

"Jack -" She gasped, nearly biting her tongue as he suddenly shuffled into an awkward sort of jog. "JACK! This is _not_ going to work!" When he didn't stop, she reached up and batted him in the side of the head. _That_ got his attention. He slowed, clearly irate.

"You're absolutely right," he declared, and with that, flipped her over so that she was slung across his back, much like a particularly lumpy, ungainly sack of grain. Or potatoes.

She could have happily killed him.

Running seemed to have become much easier for him, however, and they now threaded their way through the crowd with some speed. The faces of the people they were hurrying past had become infinitely more shocked and perturbed, especially when Ryenne viewed them from upside down. Unless she was mistaken - and, oh, how she hoped she was - she thought she heard Jack snickering. On the upside, her leg hurt quite a bit less. Now it was her pride that was throbbing in pain.

"Remember: keep an eye out," he reminded her, somewhat primly.

She responded by elbowing him sharply in the small of the back, though her satisfaction at hearing his grunt of pain was definitely depleted by the disorienting sensation of jouncing up and down with her head rather closer to the cobblestones than she would have preferred. It made her think of other things she was quite close to. Unnervingly close. The feel of Jack's arm around her waist was suddenly the most disorienting sensation of all.

"Here, here! What's all this about?" A rather pompous voice attached to a pair of rather pompous shoes - which were all Ryenne could see at this angle - interrupted her train of thought before she could even get it on the track. 'What do you mean by this behavior, young fellow?"

Jack slowed and half-turned. His voice was cool and cordial, every inch the aloof gentleman he now appeared. "I mean nothing by it, good sir. The lady twisted her ankle, and I was merely escorting her to the nearest physician. If you would be so kind as to point us in the right direction, we'll be on our way."

Ryenne could not see the man's face, but his tone was certainly confused enough. "Well, I..." A kindly old face, snowy-whiskered and fully upside down, ducked into view. "Is this true, young lady?"

Had all the blood not already been rushing into her head, Ryenne would have blushed. Instead, she crossed her arms in the most dignified way possible, given her position, and nodded. "It is."

The man straightened out of view and cleared his throat. "I see. Well. There's an herbalist over on Cross, down the lane and to the left."

Ryenne's head pounded as Jack gave the stranger what she deemed to be a completely unnecessary little bow. "Thank you ever so kindly, sir. If you will excuse us, I'll take her there directly."

The man cleared his throat. "Quite."

That was all Jack needed. Ryenne had one last glimpse of the man's knees as Jack tore away through the crowd, banking suddenly to the left and onto a smaller, quieter side street. The stoops of the shops were crammed together here, what little Ryenne could see of their facades worn and grimy. Jack stopped in front of the most tidily swept and helped her lower herself out of her awkward position. The combination of pain from the sudden weight on her ankle and the blood draining from her head caused her to stumble, and he caught her by the arm. She wrenched it away, careful not to lose her balance.

"Don't. You. Ever. Do. That. Again." She gave each word its own forceful emphasis, accompanying each one with a sharp jab of her finger to his breastbone. He couldn't seem to stop grinning.

"It was my pleasure, love." He gave her a smug little bow and gestured to the dingy building they had stopped in front of. "Shall we? Elizabeth is waiting."

Ryenne examined the little shop. It didn't look like much - a narrow building with bundles of herbs dangling behind the pitted glass of its single window - but Jack seemed pleased enough. A small wooden sign depicting a mortar and pestle hung over the doorway, which stood open. Following his lead, she stepped into the cool twilight. Inside, it smelled of earthy herbs and peppery poultices. Her eyes had barely enough time to adjust before a familiar voice reached her ears, and a young, golden-haired fellow stepped out from behind a set of shelves.

"Miss Caelar? What are you doing here?"

It was Quinn.

* * *

From his vantage point behind the rough wooden shelves, Quinn peered over the green glass bottles at the pair that had just entered the shop. Mistress Thayden, the woman he had recently won an apprenticeship with, was out in the herb garden, which meant that he would be expected to deal with the customers.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Or rather, didn't _want_ to believe them. If he was perfectly honest with himself, however, he _had_ half-expected to run into Ryenne again sooner or later. He had just been hoping that it would be later. It didn't matter either way, however. There she was, and - despite the fact that he had been trying to school himself out of his feelings towards her since the day he left _The Pearl_ - she looked lovelier than he had ever seen her before. Her hair was swept back into a simple but elegant coif, and the soft lavender of her gown brought out roses in her cheeks. There was a light in her eyes that he had never seen. She was happy.

Before he could think twice about what he was doing, he had stepped out from behind the shelves, mere feet from where she stood. "Miss Caelar? What are you doing here?"

"Quinn!?" He only saw the shocked - but seemingly pleased - expression on her face for half a second before she swept him into a suffocating embrace. "Oh, Quinn! I was so worried about you! Where have you been all this time?!"

She smelled of lilacs. Quinn was fighting a losing battle against himself. "I've been here."

"But where is 'here?'" She released him - somewhat reluctantly, he liked to think - and peered into the musty semi-darkness around them. It was then that he noticed the man lurking behind her.

In the light filtering through the dust motes, his well-tailored clothes and beardless face appeared typically upper-class. A merchant, perhaps. But then the man's brown eyes caught his own in an intense gaze, and he realized.

It was Jack.

Quinn didn't know why his appearance had changed so drastically, and he didn't dwell on it; the air in the shop seemed to have dropped several degrees, and he could feel his hackles rise. He gave Jack the dignity of a stiff nod, however, as the other man came to stand by Ryenne.

"Do you run this shop, Quinn?" His question was terse, and Quinn noted that he hadn't had the decency to at least nod back.

"Only in the absence of Mistress Thayden," he responded. "Is there a reason why you're here?"

"Yes," Ryenne said. "We need someone to help - "

"And am I supposed to assume that you're as well-versed in midwifery as your mistress?" The look Jack gave him was one of obvious distaste. He didn't even seem to have noticed that he had cut Ryenne off. She did, however, and shot him a look of annoyance.

"My skills lie elsewhere within the healing arts, sir. In case your memory fails you." It was impudent, but he didn't serve under Jack any more, and...it felt _good_. The glare the other man gave him sent a delicious shiver of defiance down his spine; a month ago, Jack could have imposed any number of punishments on him for that kind of effrontery. "She has taught me some things, however," he added, more for Ryenne's sake than anything.

"Where is your mistress, boy?" Quinn's eye caught a flicker of movement as Jack's hand twitched to where his sword would normally sit. He wasn't wearing it. Apparently his fancy new clothes didn't allow for such things. Quinn couldn't help but feel relieved. He was careful not to let it show on his face.

"She's out, as I said before." He kept his tone cool and authoritative. "Why are you here?"

Jack opened his mouth, but this time Ryenne cut him off. "We're here because we need someone to help Eliz - Will's wife," she amended, seeing his forming confusion. "She's gone into labor. But it's too early, and -"

"And you're concerned, naturally so."

Quinn jumped at the sound of Mistress Thayden's papery voice. He hadn't heard her entrance. Neither, apparently, had Jack or Ryenne. The former reached again for his nonexistent weapon and the latter stifled a gasp of surprise. For, papery though her voice may have been, Mistress Thayden was no crouched old woman. She stood a full head taller than Quinn himself, and there were only one or two silverly streaks running through her thick red hair. Her eyes were a clear and piercing blue. Right now, they were full of calm command.

"Where is the lady?" Mistress Thayden continued, her question accompanied by the various rustlings that indicated the gathering of her supplies. Quinn exhaled a small sigh of relief; he barely had enough training to assist in normal childbirth, let alone a situation where there might be complications.

"We would be more than happy to lead you to her at once, Mistress Thayden," Jack answered, and if Quinn wasn't much mistaken, there was a note of relief in his voice, too. He had not seemed overly anxious when he had entered the shop, but Quinn didn't discount the fact that his own perceptions of Jack's moods were somewhat jaded.

"That would suit very nicely, I think," Mistress Thayden said, coming to stand beside Quinn. She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Lad, you will come along. You may learn some important things today." He nodded, and she smiled down at him. Her sharp blue eyes were measuring, but she seemed to approve of his willingness. He tried to not let his terror show. "Now fetch your kit, and let's be on our way."

He nodded again and hurried to collect his worn leather satchel from the small side room he was able to call his own. He could feel Jack's eyes on him as he left, feel the anger burning like hot coals behind that stare. He pushed it away, focusing instead on the nervous flutter that was building inside his chest. This would be the first time he assisted a childbirth. It was no small thing, and would require all his attention. He couldn't allow Jack to distract him.

A sharp - and sharply familiar - gasp of pain drew him back into the main room, where Ryenne had just collapsed into a lavender heap on her way towards the door. He had to resist the urge to run to her side. Jack was already there.

"I'm fine. It's nothing." Ryenne brushed away the unspoken question along with Jack's proffered hand, climbing unsteadily to her feet. "It's nothing."

"A great many 'nothings' have proved to be quite serious 'somethings,' in my personal experience." The mistress had already removed her spectacles from her apron pocket and began to usher Ryenne to a nearby chair. Jack caught her when she stumbled, tucked an arm around her waist to help her walk. Quinn's own grimace of discomfort nearly matched Ryenne's. He hovered over the old woman's shoulder, watching her skilled, bony fingers remove Ryenne's shoe and probe her ankle.

"I just twisted it while we were running, that's all," Ryenne told her.

Mistress Thayden gave her a wry look. "And why, might I ask, were you running in shoes like these?" The lady brandished an offending shoe at them.

Ryenne raised an eyebrow pointedly, and Jack shifted from one foot to the other. Despite Ryenne's injury, Quinn couldn't help but enjoy his obvious discomfort.

"Young people today. Not a whit of common sense between the lot of you," Mistress Thayden muttered to herself.

"That's as may be, but Elizabeth went into labor quite suddenly and there was no time to spare. There is _still _no time to spare," Jack protested.

"Very well. Your ankle is sprained, young lady. I insist that you remain here with Quinn until it is properly bandaged."

"_No_," Jack interjected suddenly, and all three of them turned to give him shocked looks. He blinked, seeming unsure, but then rallied. "I really don't think Ryenne should be left here."

"Why ever not, young man?" Mistress Thayden queried.

"She might get lost on her way back. Or worse," he added darkly. Ryenne snorted, giving him a look that said that she clearly thought he was insane. "Well, you _might_," he shot back.

"You're being ridiculous, Jack," she said. "I'll stay with Quinn. We'll walk to the Turner's together. I'm sure the bandaging won't take too long."

"It won't, as long as we don't postpone treatment any longer," Quinn said, doing his best not to look too smug. Clearly Jack was desperate not to leave Ryenne alone with him.

"The boy is quite right," Mistress Thayden concurred, and his chest swelled with pride. "Your ankle will be fine within a couple of weeks, but only as long as you treat it gently, which means staying out of shoes like _these_." She shook Ryenne's shoe for emphasis, and then turned to Quinn. "I trust you know how to deal with this?"

He nodded vigorously. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Join me at the birthing when you're finished." And with that, she and Jack were out the door, Jack turning to give them one last furious, frustrated glare.

* * *

Ryenne shook her head in disgust and bewilderment as she watched Jack make his sulky exit, throwing Quinn one final dirty look. He really had no reason to be acting that way, and least of all to a boy so many years his junior. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I don't know what's wrong with him," she said.

The boy just shook his head, sending her a brief smile before returning to his kit of supplies. "It's fine."

She refused to be placated. "It's not. I don't understand why he would act so... so..."

"Jealous?" The boy supplied, his smile turning a bit sad. "Don't you, Miss Caelar?" When she opened her mouth to reply, he shook his head again. "Never mind. It's nothing."

_I don't think you realize how much the boy cares for you._

_Ryenne, Jack loves you... very much. I think he loves you even more than he realizes... and it's damn near killing him that you won't see him._

Suddenly everything was clear. Jack _was_ jealous... of Quinn. And she had made it so, refusing to see anyone but Quinn throughout her recovery. Quinn, who seemed to her like a sweet younger brother, a confidante. Someone _safe_. Jack viewed him as a threat. Because Jack loved her... and so did Quinn, apparently.

She didn't know whether to feel happy or sad, annoyed or flattered.

Fortunately, she didn't have to puzzle over it much longer, as another twinge from her ankle cleared her mind of all thought. She tried to stop a hiss of pain from escaping her lips, but Quinn must have heard it all the same. His sad smile was quickly replaced by a disapproving frown.

"You certainly do know how to hurt yourself, don't you?" He deposited a pile of fresh bandages on the floor next to her and knelt to prod at her ankle, just as his mistress had done. "I'll need for you to... er... remove your stocking." The tips of his ears flushed red. She had to supress a smile. After all he had seen her through, the thought of seeing her bare leg still made him flush.

She played along. "If you wouldn't mind turning around for a moment..."

"Of course," he leapt to his feet, vanishing once more behind the shelves he had first appeared from. She chuckled quietly, watching him go. And immediately regretted sending him away.

Had she been wearing trousers and a shirt - or even the simple shift she had worn for so many weeks - it wouldn't have been an issue for her to bend and remove her stocking. Unfortunately for her, the dress she was currently wearing didn't allow for much in the area of bending, or any sufficient range of movement at all. She wouldn't be able to remove the stocking. At least, not on her own.

It was Ryenne's turn to blush.

* * *

"Ah...hmm. Now...wait. Hmm."

Quinn frowned, wondering why, exactly, Ryenne was muttering to herself. Surely removing a stocking didn't require -

"_Damn." _

"Miss Caelar, um...are you all right?" He said, somewhat hesitantly. There was a pause from the other side of the shelf, and then a sigh.

"Quinn, can you - can you help me with this, please?"

"Help you with what?"

"This bloody stocking."

"Oh." Gingerly, he stuck his face around the side of the shelf to peer at her. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, looking slightly chagrined. Seeing him, she gave a small shrug.

"I can't reach in this corset. Can you...?" She gestured vaguely at her skirt.

Quinn blinked, swallowed, and blinked again in rapid succession. Take off her stocking? The stocking underneath her skirt? The stocking that was, very likely, attached to a garter that also happened to reside underneath her skirt?

"Quinn," she said, seeing him stare. "It isn't as if you've never seen me in trousers. Or _less_", she added with acerbity. "My leg will not bite you."

"I suppose," he acceded, still reluctant. It just wasn't...wasn't...

There was no way around it. He didn't find it proper. Not in the least. Ironic, considering the amount of time he had spent around _pirates_, but this was Ryenne, and he had never been able to help but put her on a bit of a pedestal. However, the bandaging of her ankle required him, as her healer, to do whatever was necessary, so he steeled his nerve and knelt in front of her.

Lavender skirts filled his vision, the fabric draped quite becomingly over her legs. Reaching out, he grasped it between his thumb and forefinger and began to inch it upwards, trying - oh, how he was trying - not to give her any indication of exactly how bothered he was by this simple act. Her stocking, not that he was looking, was a sheer white silk thing held up by garter that he most certainly did _not_ look at. Pinching the stocking, he gave it a quick tug, drawing it down her slim leg and over her ankle, which had clearly swollen already. The bruising brought him out of the shocked sort of trance he had found himself in, and he discarded the stocking, holding her ankle with one hand and gently probing it with the other. From the corner of his eye, he could see her fighting back a wince. Her voice, when she spoke again, showed the strain.

"Why did you leave us, Quinn?" She squeezed her eyes shut as he poked and prodded. "How did you end up here, of all places?"

He wanted to ignore the questions, throw himself into caring for her injury - he needed to wrap it in cool cloth before the swelling became too much worse - but he suddenly found himself surveying the cluttered little shop he had called home for the past weeks. It was his place of learning, his haven. He'd been so lucky to -

"Quinn, _please_ talk. Distract me." Ryenne's voice had a pleading edge to it now. "It hurts."

He had no choice.

"I was going to accompany you to Mr. Turner's home, the day we made port, but -" _But Jack said I wasn't to see you anymore. _The words sounded petulant, even in his head. "But the Captain thought it would be best if you were attended by a more... _qualified_ healer. When I tried to insist, he made it quite clear that my presence was no longer required on the ship. So I left." He tried to sound as nonchalant and uncaring as possible, but he had the feeling that he was failing in the most spectacular way.

Ryenne was silent for a moment. "Wait... _Jack_ dismissed you? But…he never said anything."

So she had no idea. He had a moment of intense irritation; had she even wondered at his disappearance, or asked anyone where he had gone?

Well, he knew the answer to that. She hadn't. She had been so wrapped up in her gradual recovery that she hadn't been aware of his absence, and clearly Jack hadn't volunteered the information. He suddenly realized that he had rather come to hate Jack. With that realization came a strange feeling of liberation. He had never admitted to himself the extent to which Jack had failed his trust.

When he really thought about his disappearance from Ryenne's life, though, it wasn't as if he had bothered to leave her a note telling her where he had gone, or tried to find out how her recovery had progressed. So they were both to blame.

It didn't make him feel any better.

If he had looked up, he would have seen the guilt clouding Ryenne's features. He didn't bother, just hurried to fetch himself the pitcher of clean, cold water Mistress Thayden kept by her bedside. Ryenne's voice followed him from room to room, deliberately ignoring his attempts to ignore her.

"What have you been up to? Have you been here this entire time? How did you find Mistress... er... Mistress..."

"Thayden." Quinn focused on pouring water from the pitcher to the chipped porcelain basin he would use to soak the bandages, focused on not spilling a single drop. He hoped that if he worked hard enough to focus all of his suddenly bitter energy into every droplet of cool water, none of it would spill out onto Ryenne. He didn't want to be angry with her, but he couldn't seem to help himself. "Her name is Mistress Thayden. I happened upon her shop about a week after I left the _Pearl_. I heard word that she was looking for an apprentice. She accepted me. I've been here ever since."

He roughly worked the bandages into the water with his hands, selecting one and beginning the wrapping process. He had to force himself to slow down; a swift wrap job was a shoddy one.

Ryenne's hand on his shoulder gave him pause. "Quinn, I'm sorry. I should have come and found you."

He closed his eyes, trying to will himself not to hear her. It was easier to be angry than to accept her apology, easier to dwell on his own hurt than to acknowledge the terrible guilt that simple statement provoked. He still couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes.

"Thank you for doing this, as well. I have a feeling I'm going to need this ankle good sooner rather than later." She paused, and he tried not to know what she was talking about. "Did you know that Jack sent the _Pearl_ away?"

He shook his head no, trying to stop his hands from shaking. If the _Pearl_ was gone, what he had done...

Gods. What _had_ he done?

"Jack says she's too distinctive to linger here in Port Royale, especially with Commodore Norrington nosing about." From the corner of his eye, he could see her fingering the embroidery on her lavender skirts (agitatedly). She couldn't possibly know, could she? "Even so, I think the Commodore may suspect Jack is here."

_Focus. Focus. She doesn't know. _"And that's why Jack looks so..."

Ryenne chuckled. "He does look different, doesn't he?" She bent as close to his ear as her corsets allowed, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "_It's a disguise._"

"Is it."

No. That was the wrong inflection. He tried for something more circumspect.

"I don't know if that's going to make a difference. Jack is too...unique. He can't help but stand out."

He wanted to smash something. Circumspect? He couldn't be more obvious if he tried, and they had to be blind or fools if they thought that Norrington was going to be taken in by a disguise like that. The man was many things, but fool was not one of them.

He should know.

Ryenne was skeptical. "Well...maybe. I barely recognized him the first time I saw him like this, though. Do you really think Norrington would know?"

She was so naive.

No.

She had never met Norrington. If she had, she would either have already killed Jack herself for sending the _Pearl_ away, or arranged passage for him off the island.

Quinn's dexterous fingers tucked in the end of the last bandage. The pressure was building in him to speak, if only to disabuse her of the notion that she and Jack were safe under the aegis of their flimsy deception. But he was torn. He regretted what he had done, certainly, but Jack... Jack deserved it.

_If he were to die..._

That was what decided him. Guilt was only a pale motivation compared to the knowledge of the pain Ryenne would be in if Jack were hung. She didn't deserve that. His hatred of Jack was nothing compared to his hatred for himself for even contemplating what his chances would be with Ryenne if Jack were to die. He felt like scum. Worse than scum.

"Ryenne, I need to tell you something," he said quietly, steeling his backbone.

"Anything, Quinn." There was concern in her voice, and he felt a terrible burning sensation behind his eyes. He forced himself to look at her.

"You're going to hate me, and you have every right to."

She frowned. "What? Quinn, whatever it is, just tell me. I won't hate you."

She really had no idea. It was anguish. The blood was roaring in his ears.

"I told Norrington. I told him Jack was here." Ryenne was silent, but her eyes held volumes of hurt and confusion. "I wanted revenge," he continued, the words easier now that he had started. "It was the only thing I could think of. Norrington knows Jack; the only reason he hasn't arrested him already is because he wanted to make sure he had the upper hand before making a move."

Ryenne swallowed. "Quinn, why would you do something like this? I understand that you were angry when Jack told you to go, but - to tell the _Commodore_ that one of Britain's most wanted pirates was not only in port, but staying with the son-in-law of the governor - Quinn, you've put _everyone_ I care about in danger!"

"Well put," said a dark voice, and Quinn and Ryenne started simultaneously. Jack was standing in the doorway, and there was murder in his eyes.


	56. New Life

Time seemed to stand still in Ryenne's mind, the shadowed tableau frozen. Quinn's eyes were very wide, and he had the look of a cornered small animal. And Jack... she didn't know if she had ever seen him so angry. His eyes were almost black.

"You little termite. You little bilge-sucking, barrel-scraping –"

He lunged at Quinn, grabbing him by the shoulders. Ryenne tried to stand and grab his wrist, but he brushed her away like she was nothing.

"Jack! _JACK_!"

Her scream clearly didn't even register to him. He was lost in his fury. Quinn, however, was quick; he twisted sideways and ducked out of his grip, but not before Jack was able to grab a fistful of his shirt. Quinn's flailing arms hit one of the shelves, dislodging several bottles, which crashed to the floor. Shards of glass mixed with various seeds and bottled oddities, the natures of which Ryenne did not care to examine.

It proved unfortunate for Jack, whose boot slipped, sending both him and Quinn to the floor in a writhing tangle. Ryenne stood watching, hating her helplessness and alternating between horrified and furious.

"Jack, you cannot do this! He is just a_ child_!"

They slowed for a moment to look at her, and then Quinn slipped from Jack's grip, backing away. His cheek was cut, a drop of blood tracing a line down his face like a tear.

"I am _not_ just a child," he spat at them both. And then he was out the door, and into the street.

Ryenne stared after him in shock for a moment, at a loss for words. The crunch of glass brought her back to her senses - Jack, climbing to his feet in the midst of the wreckage. She rounded on him, anxiety adding fuel to her anger.

"Look what you've done!"

His eyes hadn't lost their frightening blackness. "What _I've_ done!?" He brushed debris from his now-ruined coat with sharp, haphazard movements and glowered at her. "How can you possibly defend him? You said it yourself: he's put us all in danger!"

"That doesn't mean I wanted you to... to..." Pain clouded her head, and she sunk back into her chair. "He's so young, Jack. He didn't understand!"

He opened and closed his mouth once, clenching his fists at his sides. "Youth is no excuse for reckless idiocy."

"But -"

"I don't have time for this! He's probably on his way to the fort already, and now he's had a head start!" He was out the door and running before she could speak another word.

She was alone. And Jack was hurtling headfirst into trouble. Steeling herself against the pain she knew was about to come, she eased herself to her feet and followed both of them, out into the noise and bustle of the streets.

She did not have a good feeling about this.

* * *

Jack's feet pounded on the cobblestones in rhythm with his pulse. He scanned the people he passed perfunctorily, phasing out their stunned expressions. He needed to catch that boy. It did not surprise him that Quinn had gotten such a good head start; the boy was fresh from the high seas, and had never had a soft day in his life.

A blond head in the market throng at about the right height made an appearance, moving quickly toward a side street. He made a beeline for it, pushing several people out of the way more roughly than he had intended. Several invectives were thrown at him, and he called out a couple of harried apologies as he went.

Jack slowed to a jog when he saw that Quinn had stopped at a vendor's stand. What in the nine hells was he doing? It made no sense. He was close now to them now, close enough to see that it was same fruit vendor from earlier, the round little man helping the boy select some pomegranates and oranges.

He came up behind them and grabbed Quinn's shoulders, causing several oranges to fall to the ground as the boy dropped them in shock. He was about to continue his blistering diatribe when he took a good look at the boy's face.

It wasn't Quinn.

He was the worst fool the world had ever seen.

"_Damn_."

"What in heaven's name are you doing, sir? Unhand this boy at once!" The vendor was askance, his chest puffed up to a ridiculous degree of rotundity.

Jack released the boy, who was actually quite a bit younger than Quinn and, now that he really looked, not the right height at all. He couldn't have been older than nine, and he was terrified. He took off into the crowd, which had begun to gather round curiously. Jack slammed his hand into the side of the stall, causing a precariously balanced mango display to topple to the ground.

"You just cost me a customer!" Recognition lit up the pudgy little fruit vendor's eyes. "You! You're the one who caused all the commotion, not two hours ago! You and that young lass! And now you're assaulting my customers!" He shook a meaty fist at Jack. "Someone should report you to the militia!"

"Someone already is." Tossing a fallen mango back at the vendor, Jack turned and set off once again, trodding on one or two others as he did so.

"You'll have to pay for those!"

He didn't look back. He'd spotted a familiar face staring back at him from the crowd. And this time he was certain. Shouldering his way through the gathered assemblage, he focused all of his attention on reaching that scrawny, darting figure, reaching his hands right around that traitorous bastard's skinny neck. He wanted nothing more than to feel Quinn's pulse slowing beneath his fingers. How unfortunate it was that Ryenne was so fond of him. She had abysmal taste, caring for two villains of the same name. Two villains that Jack would have the personal pleasure of eliminating. He just needed to catch the little whelp, to focus on that and that alone.

Unfortunately, in all of his focus, he failed to notice the tinker's cart standing directly in his path until he'd crashed headlong into it. There was a tremendous ringing in his ears as both he and the cart collided in an explosion of cookware. The cart overturned, sending pans flying everywhere - some right into his skull. Laying in the wreckage, half-dazed and with spots crowding his vision, Jack gazed foggily up at the uniforms beginning to assemble at the edge of the now-substantial crowd. One, two, three…four…he let his head fall back against the hard, wooden edge of the cart, sighing in defeat. There was nothing he could do. Behind the ringing in his ears, which still persisted, he could hear both the tinker and the fruit vendor expounding on their grievances.

"Sir, we need you to come with us," said the head uniform after the two had ceased. He nodded at Jack. "Bring him to his feet." The other guards, for guards they were, grabbed Jack by the elbows and hoisted him up. Shaking his head to clear it, Jack let them hold him in place. What was the point of struggling? His rage had evaporated in the face of his own stupidity. In desperately trying not to get arrested, he had brought the guards down upon himself.

"Sir, you are under arrest for three counts of disturbing the peace and two counts of destruction of private property. I suggest you come with us peaceably."

He had failed in his attempts to avoid the law. He had failed to protect Ryenne, to protect himself. He had even failed to outrun a thirteen-year-old boy. And, somewhere along the way, he had become the worst pirate ever.

* * *

Ryenne couldn't believe what she was seeing. Granted, for a moment, she hadn't known what she was seeing - the milling, muttering crowd and the wreckage of what seemed to be multiple vendor's carts had blocked her vision - but now that she did, she could feel her heart sinking past the soles of her bare feet and into the dirt below. Jack, surrounded by uniformed and armed guards, being bound and led away. He wasn't even struggling.

She didn't know what to do with herself. Her chances of elbowing her way through the throng in time to reach him (with her ankle the way it was) were not good. Calling to him would do no good. If he even managed to hear her, what would he do? Fight off four guards and through a crowd, carry her back to Will and Elizabeth's home without being captured? She felt frustrated tears prick her eyes, and - despite all her logic - pressed forward into the crowd.

"Jack! _Jack_!" Too late, she remembered he was now to be publicly known as "George." The guards heard her and craned their heads toward the sound. So did Jack.

The horror on his face upon spotting her registered at the same time her shouts registered to the crowd around her. The fruit vendor she remembered from earlier was now squinting somewhat threateningly at her.

"You know him, do you?"

Jack was shaking his head. She shook hers, but she knew it was too late. The strange man's hand closed around her wrist.

"You're the lass from earlier, aren't you?"

_Find Will! _Jack mouthed frantically. He began to struggle, drawing the guards' attention back, away from her. _Find Will!_

Her captor wasn't about to be ignored. "You are, aren't you?"

Ryenne did the first thing that came to mind. She lied.

"Please, I'm looking for my little brother! That man, he said he was going to hurt him if I didn't do as he said! Please," the tears that trickled down her cheeks were hardly feigned. "Have you seen him?"

The pudgy little man's face turned uncomfortable, and he dropped her wrist in a manner that Ryenne could only describe as sheepish. "I saw the lad, not ten minutes ago. He ran off that way." The man pointed. Ryenne worked up her best, shyest, most piteous curtsy and murmured her thanks. He turned away before she even finished speaking.

She didn't wait the span of two heartbeats before setting off at a limping jog. Towards Will. Though how he would be able to help Jack, she had no idea.

* * *

Will had been exiled from the birthing chamber. After Mistress Thayden had arrived – a fortunate find on Jack's part, and one he greatly appreciated – she had ushered him out the door. When he had protested, Elizabeth had confirmed what Mistress Thayden had said: that there were some things that were not for men to see, she would be fine, and they would call him back as soon as it was over.

In reality, a part of him was relieved. Elizabeth's labor pains had come on so suddenly, and it had been terrifying for him to see her face contorted in agony, to hold her weight while those kinds of screams issued from her throat. Mistress Thayden had swept in and taken command in such a calm and controlled manner that he couldn't help but trust her, and besides – she had said that even though premature births could be dangerous to both mother and child, Elizabeth seemed quite strong and she was certain that it would be fine.

So now he waited outside in the corridor, listening to the sounds of his wife enduring physical hardship he could only dream of. But she would pull through. She always did. That thought brought a hint of a smile to his face, and lessened his anxiety.

Until the door slammed below, and Ryenne came hobbling up the stairs.

"Will! Will, you've got to go down there, they've taken Jack!"

He hurried to the top of the stairs to take her arm and steady her. "Ryenne, slow down. Who's taken Jack? Where? And what's wrong with your leg?"

"I sprained my ankle. I'll be fine." He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "It's the guards – Jack was chasing Quinn through the market and he knocked over some things and they arrested him. Can they do that?"

Will shook his head. "I don't know. It would depend on what he knocked over. But – you said he was chasing Quinn? Little Quinn?"

She gave him a bit of an odd look. "Yes, of course it was little Quinn. He's been at the herbalist's shop this whole time." Her face suddenly turned dark. "Which reminds me – why didn't you tell me Jack sent him away?!"

"I don't know," Will hedged, running his fingers through his hair. "I guess it just never occurred to me. We all had other things to worry about." He shook his head again, trying to clear his thoughts. "Where have they taken Jack? Why was he chasing Quinn?"

Ryenne shrugged helplessly. "Gaol? I don't know. There were four guards. I couldn't tell whose they were. And…I'll explain the chasing later."

"Was Norrington there?" Will asked sharply, suddenly fearing the worst.

"No, they looked like militia to me. Common militia - they didn't look high-ranking."

"They've likely taken him to a cell in the fort, then. Ryenne – I can't leave here. Elizabeth is giving birth; you know that."

She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. Somehow her reclined position made her appear even more tense. "Yes, Will, I know. But we have to do something."

He resisted the temptation to panic, the temptation to disregard everything and rush to the fort in arms, to act rashly. He could still hear Elizabeth, deep in labor, through the bedroom door. He couldn't leave her. She would never forgive him. And Ryenne would never forgive him if he refused to act. But there was nothing he could do.

There was nothing he could do, save wait.

* * *

Jack was getting tired of waiting. It seemed as though hours had passed since the guards had brought him to his dingy cell in the cellar of the fort. He'd paced its length till he thought he would wear a path into the stone floor. He'd reclined on the narrow cot, staring at the ceiling. He'd pressed his face against the window bars, watching, hoping against hope to see a familiar figure running towards the fort. He knew she wouldn't come - he'd told her not to. If she had, she would, most likely, be sharing his cell.

His cell. He'd landed himself in prison. It was a better prison than many he'd occupied in the past, but that fact brought him no comfort. The waiting was making him agitated, restless... It was positively maddening. Good or bad, something needed to _happen_.

As if someone had read his mind, the sound of footsteps suddenly echoed through the gaol. It did not take long for the boots responsible for the noise to appear within view, followed by the legs, chest, and then the man himself. Jack steeled himself for the worst.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Jack Sparrow."

"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow, as you well know," Jack replied reflexively and without enthusiasm. It was an old game between them, and he was tired of it.

The other man stopped outside the cell, distastefully traced the line of a rusty bar with his finger, and fixed him with a look he remembered all too well.

"I must confess to being most surprised when word of your incarceration reached me. I hadn't planned on arresting you for several more days."

"Well, here I am."

Norrington frowned. "Yes, here you are indeed. Tell me, Sparrow, how is it that you managed to get yourself arrested for a _marketplace_ disturbance? You've never been particularly subtle, but this just seems..."

"Stupid? I'm well aware, thanks so much," Jack snapped. "Get to the point, Norrington. What do you want?"

"I want to make you a proposition. One that could be beneficial for the both of us."

Jack didn't bother to contain a snort. "Somehow I doubt that anything beneficial to _you_ could possibly be a good thing for _me_."

"Ah, but you haven't heard my offer yet."

"I'm listening." He leaned against the wall of his cell in what he hoped looked like a nonchalant manner. In fact, he was preparing himself. He was almost certain he knew what offer he was about to hear. He'd heard it before. Norrington wanted to keep him in a different sort of prison. The sort of prison that couldn't be escaped with just a little leverage. Invisible prison doors had no half-pin barrel hinges.

Jack smiled to himself, examining the door to his cell. He didn't recognize the new design, but he knew Will would have. Will, who was about to become a father. What a strange thought. In all the excitement, he had almost forgotten. It was a pity he would probably never meet the child.

"Were I to blindly follow the rules, as you seem to believe I take pleasure in doing, I would have no choice but to have you hung immediately. As you well know, the crown has little tolerance for piracy. Unless piracy serves a profit -"

"You want me to sign on as a privateer for the Royal Navy." Jack supplied in a flat voice. Norrington nodded, not surprised to have his offer spelled out so plainly.

"It would mean clemency."

"And the alternative?"

"The gallows."

Jack closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. His crew and the _Pearl_ were already safe, tucked away in Tortuga. Ryenne would be safe with Will and Elizabeth. The only person truly in danger was him, and him alone. He opened his eyes and fixed Norrington with a level stare.

"I'd rather hang than sail under your colors." He forced a smirk onto his features, though he felt no amusement. "I'm afraid it'll be the gallows for me."

Norrington nodded his acknowledgment, turning to pace a few steps along the corridor. Even this restless gesture seemed vaguely military in such a man. "You realize this choice extends to the entirety of your crew? No one but you will be given this offer."

"With all due respect, Commodore: no one but you and I would profit from this offer. My crew seems to have no place in it."

"I'm sure Miss Caelar would feel differently." Jack's blood ran cold as he watched Norrington smile that slow, sad smile. "Yes, I'm afraid your young friend informed me of rather more than just your arrival. He was rather desperate to bargain for his own clemency."

"You wouldn't hang her," Jack said through gritted teeth. If he ever saw Quinn again, the boy was dead. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.

Norrington's voice was sharp. "I will hang anyone who insists on openly breaking laws that are put in place to protect innocent people."

"She has never harmed an innocent. You - " Jack stopped himself. He would not plead. He would negotiate. "If I agree, what precisely are your terms?"

Norrington's eyes held a spark of approval. "Clemency for you, under the strict condition that you accept letters of marque from the crown and privateer under my command as commodore. And clemency for your crew, should you wish to rejoin them. You will all take oaths to the crown, and you will sail under England's colors."

"You would allow me to rejoin my crew and captain the _Pearl_?" Jack found this hard to believe.

"Yes," Norrington held up a warning finger. "But you would all undergo a probationary period in which you would serve as a fleetship in the armada. Should you complete the probationary term satisfactorily, you would then be allowed privateering rights as a single vessel." He retraced his steps, arms clasped behind his back. A solemn march. "Serving in the armada would require you for a time to go to England, however, and you may not find yourself very welcome, even with letters of marque. The other captains would likely find your reputation... somewhat threatening. They would not trust you."

It didn't surprise him that he would likely be disliked by other naval captains, but he doubted they would find him threatening. Pirates were worse than dogs in the eyes of the crown. It was time to find out what his other options were.

"My crew is in Tortuga, and I would rather they stay there. And the _Pearl_. She is not a navy ship, and she will never be." He bit the inside of his cheek. "But if I still chose to accept?"

He had always hated the way Norrington seemed able to weigh a man's character with his eyes. Right now, however, his eyes said that he wasn't quite sure what to make of Jack.

"Were you still to accept the terms of the agreement, you would be given a naval ship with a complete naval crew. The probationary period would not apply, as your crew... and your honor... would be expected to keep you in check. Your old crew would lose their chance at clemency, likely forever."

It was a difficult bargain either way. He knew his crew; they were pirates to the bone, every one of them, and were he to turn the _Pearl_ into a navy ship and offer them lives serving the crown, they would likely turn on him to a man. They would see it as a kind of betrayal, in their own way.

He could not do that to them.

But there was still Ryenne.

"And Ryenne...? Where does she fit into all of this?"

Norrington bowed his head momentarily, his sad smile taking a bitter twist at the corners. "Ah, yes. Miss Ryenne Caelar, formerly the captain of a ship called the _Silver Gryphon_. Currently a member of your crew..." He leveled a knowing stare at Jack. "Or rather more than that?" His tone was sympathetic. Somehow that annoyed Jack more than anything.

"That's none of your damn business."

Couldn't the man wipe that damned smile off of his face? He was near as bad as Will. "I suppose that's answer enough." He resumed his pacing. "She is, as I said, a member of your crew, and as such is subject to the agreement I already mentioned."

No. He wouldn't be forced to choose between enslaving his entire crew and allowing Ryenne to die. There had to be another choice. He clutched at the only hope he could invent. "And if she weren't a part of my crew?"

"That's irrelevant. She _is_ a part of your crew."

"But if she weren't," He had started pacing without even noticing. He forced himself to stop. "If she weren't a part of any crew at all. If she stayed _here_ -"

"If she resumed civilianship?" Norrington shook his head. "What assurance do I have that she would abstain from piracy, even were she not a member of your crew?"

"I would stand as surety."

The other man looked momentarily stunned. Jack was stunned himself. Was he actually going to do this? Give up everything he had worked his entire life to achieve, become everything he had always loathed... for Ryenne? He wasn't certain.

Norrington appeared to recover somewhat faster than Jack was able. "I'm not one to make rash bargains. I need time to consider what you ask, and I suggest you consider what I've offered." He gave Jack one last, long, calculating look. "You have one day."

A wave of numbness washed over Jack as he watched the Commodore retreat up the stairs. One day. He only had one day to make the decision that would change his life forever.

But what would he choose?

* * *

"Jack! Psst, Jack!"

There was a familiar whisper coming from beyond the grimy, iron bars of his window. Recognition brought him both to his feet and to the window in one movement, and there she was, silhouetted against the incoming tide on the cliff below.

"Are you insane? How did you get down there?" Jack had to stop himself from shouting; there were guards both on the ramparts above and in the corridor inside. The wind seemed to whisk his words away, but somehow she heard him.

"Does it matter? Jack, we have to get you out of there!" She must have stolen some of Will's clothes, because she was dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and trousers. It was an unfamiliar sight after all the frills and ribbons Elizabeth had outfitted her in, but a comforting one. Despite himself, he grinned.

"What's your plan, Miss Caelar? We're surrounded on all sides by Norrington's men, we have no ship, and... frankly, I'm behind bars."

She shook her head, brushing a strand of windswept hair out of her eyes. "The _Pearl_ came back, Jack. We still have a chance to get away!"

"The _Pearl_ came back?" He was in disbelief. It didn't quite make sense - he had only just sent his crew away, not more than a week before. Had they reached Tortuga, only to turn back? "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! They're anchored on the other side of the island, waiting for us."

He was almost lightheaded with relief and wonder. His crew had come back for him! It didn't matter how they had known that he needed them; they were here. He could hope again.

"We need a plan," he said, feeling his old survival instincts beginning to kick in. "The guard is due to change in about half an hour. Did you bring anything with you?"

Ryenne grinned up at him, and for the first time he noticed the bag and coiled rope at her feet. She picked up the end of the rope, which had a rock tied to it, and began to swing it.

"I suggest you move away from the window," she said as she let it fly. He ducked to the side as it came sailing perfectly through the bars. Hoping the guard hadn't heard, he grabbed it and began pulling the sack up. It was too big to fit through the bars, so he held it outside the cell as he untied the top. His own grin got even bigger when he saw what was inside.

"Where did you find all of this?" He laughed incredulously as he tucked the pistol into his belt, hefted the pry bar in his fist. There was bread and dried beef there too. And rum. "Ryenne, this is wonderful!"

"Hurry! I hear someone coming!" She opened her arms to catch the sack as he dropped it once again and ducked into the shadow of the fort.

Jack worked quickly. The bars seemed to melt away like butter at the touch of the pry bar, and he swung his legs out the small opening, trying to judge the distance to the ground. It seemed a hundred miles. Grabbing hold of the rope, he lowered himself over the edge. And fell.

He hit the ground with a thud. He opened his eyes.

Moonlight poured in through the window bars of his cell. It had all been a dream.

* * *

Ryenne had been forcing herself to smile for the last half an hour, and it was beginning to hurt her face. She did not, however, know what else to do. There was nothing else she really could do; her true feelings had no place here. So she sat demurely in a chair by the wall, smiling and watching Will and Elizabeth coo over their new baby boy. He was a lovely little thing, that was for certain, but her thoughts were with Jack, who should have been here to celebrate this new life with them.

"Do you want to hold him, Ryenne?" That was Elizabeth, all flushed cheeks and beaming charitableness.

"Oh… all right," she acquiesced, even though she had no such desire. Will brought the boy over, handling him as if he were made of blown glass. He knelt in front of her as he placed the baby in her arms.

"There we are," he said quietly, his eyes sparkling. Ryenne looked down at the little face, whose blue eyes were surprisingly watchful and attentive.

"He's beautiful," she said to him, and he gave Elizabeth a look of such tenderness that Ryenne wanted to shrivel up and die. She didn't belong here, having this moment with them. Jack did. "What are you going to call him?"

"John." Will brushed a tiny black curl from the baby's forehead, smiling up at Ryenne. There was a light in his eyes such as she had never seen before. "Our own little Jack."

Will didn't seem to see the shock on her face, didn't seem to understand the frustration they were all causing to boil inside of her chest. She couldn't stand another minute of it. She handed the child to Will, whose arms were already eagerly reaching to accept him back, and murmured an excuse that no one seemed to hear. No one uttered a word of deterrence or gave her a sideways glance: no one even noticed. All eyes were on little John, little "Jack." Now that they had their own Jack, they couldn't spare a thought for the one sitting alone in a prison cell. And what could she do all on her own?

Outside the room, away from the family she had no part in, she could breathe easier. She headed for Jack's room first, hoping there would be something among his possessions that would aid her in coming up with a plan. As she went, she mulled on the day's events. She hoped Mistress Thayden would take good care of Quinn; he had betrayed them, and she couldn't deny that she was angry about it, but he was so young, and he needed someone stable to look after him. She certainly couldn't. She just wasn't... what he needed.

Pushing open Jack's door, she surveyed the room in the last, dying rays of the sunset. He didn't have very much here; there was a coat slung across the back of a chair and a book with a tassel hanging from its bookmark on the desk, but clearly he had left most of his possessions aboard the _Pearl_. She let the door swing shut behind her, intending to take a more thorough survey, and there it was, swinging from the door-mounted hook: Jack's effects. His hat, his belt, his pistol, and his sword, none of which had gotten much - or any - use during their stay in Port Royale so far.

She unhooked the belt and just held it, rubbing the soft, cracked leather and tracing the grip of the pistol. It was too much. She was too helpless, subject to the infirmities of her own body and the whims of others. The tears were hot on her cheeks, but she hardly noticed them. Not until they started dripping on her fingers, on the worn leather belt in her hands. Her vision filmed and blurred as she stumbled over to the bed where he had slept, where the his indent still curved amongst the rumpled sheets, and sank onto it. Even had they not be so distracted by sweet little Jack, no one would have heard her silent sobs. She buried her face into the pillows, trying to soak in the last traces of familiar scent that clung to them, and let her frustration consume her. Jack was in danger, and what could she do? All alone, what could she do?

_I'm sorry, Jack. I've failed you again._

Weary with grief and frustration, she let herself sink into the emptiness of sleep.


	57. Decision

When the first scarlet rays of the sunset spilled through the bars of Jack's prison window, he was still undecided. His mind was running the same circles, poring over the same compunctions. He had narrowed his decision down to one of two options: he could accept Norrington's offer and captain a ship crewed entirely by Norrington's men, or he could die. And Ryenne would die with him. Either way, he had lost the _Pearl_, lost everything he'd worked so hard to gain.

He adjusted his back against the rough, uneven stone of the cell. He had been sitting like that almost all day, and he didn't even notice the damp or the smell of the mildewed straw scattered around him anymore.

He still had trouble believing that he had found himself in this situation. It wasn't like him to just accept the choices given him by the opposition without finding even a single loophole; then again, however, it wasn't like him to be... and he couldn't believe he was thinking this... _in love_. Or to find himself thinking that maybe, just this once, it would be best to take responsibility for his actions. After all, he couldn't run forever, could he? Even if he managed - through some divine miracle - to escape this time, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't face the noose again. And next time, he probably wouldn't have a chance at freedom, at a normal life. A life within the law.

He had never really examined his own hatred of the law. He supposed it was because he had always felt that it restricted his options; as a pirate, he had always been able to choose his course with little fear of the repercussions. As long as his crew was kept well-fed and supplied with gold, it didn't matter how he went about his business. If their food happened to come from a pillaged settlement or their gold from a merchant ship, well, it was all part of the trade. He had never allowed his crew to kill indiscriminately, and sometimes he had even given shares of his spoils to those that he saw in need, but that had always been an extra, something not strictly required in order for him to be successful.

Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he had always preferred that lack of structure, that ability to play it by ear and improvise when needed, because he had no confidence in his ability to succeed within an organized system.

It wasn't an encouraging thought, but it made sense. Unfortunately, it was no help to him at the moment. In fact, it only served to cement his resolve not to involve his crew. Serving aboard a privateer vessel for the Royal navy would be tantamount to slavery for them. Aboard the _Pearl_, they had been free to come and go as they pleased, even to join another crew if they were so inclined. If he brought them into the bargain, it would be the end of all their freedoms. They would be forced to remain on his crew for... well, for the rest of their lives. They would be subject to navy procedures, navy regulations... It would never work. They would mutiny against him, and then any bargain with Norrington would be moot.

It had taken him a long while to accept the fact that he _was_ going to bargain with Norrington. But he had no other choice. All of his escapes in the past had involved some fairly miraculous circumstances, and quite a few things his current situation lacked. First, he had no ship. Of all the things he needed to escape the colony intact, a ship was foremost among them. Second, he had no able-bodied accomplice of any kind. Ryenne certainly wasn't able-bodied at the moment, and Will... Will had too much to lose. Third, he was in prison, with Norrington himself on guard somewhere upstairs.

For a moment, he allowed himself to speculate on the possibilities he would have had had Ryenne not been injured. The escape his mind had so cruelly dreamt up during the night would hardly have been possible, but he wondered if he and Ryenne would actually have been able to come up with something, given a few minutes to plan. Perhaps she could have tried to seduce her way through the fort using her feminine wiles, or tried to play to Norrington's pity with a tearful audience. The images those scenarios conjured almost made him laugh. She just wasn't that kind of woman.

Sometimes, though, he just didn't know what kind of woman she was, and it frustrated him. He thought back to their first meeting, and how ridiculous they had both been. How insouciant. How arrogant. There had always, however, been an undercurrent of understanding between them, sometimes tenuous and sometimes strong, even when they had been driving each other to the point of distraction.

But Quinn had left his mark on them both, and things were different now. In a way, this made it easier for him to imagine a future with Ryenne; their past had forged for them a link that could not, he suspected, be broken. At least, not easily. It was this thought alone - the thought that he could make some kind of life with this woman - that made it at all possible to stomach the very idea of working for - and not against - a man like Norrington.

A life with Ryenne. Mere months ago, considering starting a life with any woman would have been the most Taboo of Taboos for him. Now... He hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, but he had been jealous of Will. He had always been a little jealous. He had hoped the feeling would fade as he watched Will tie himself down into "family life" - children had always seemed like such a burden - but just the opposite happened. He couldn't help but imagine Ryenne, belly grown round with child, smiling that knowing smile he'd seen so often on Elizabeth's face, exuding that warm glow of happiness. He couldn't help but imagine rocking a dark-haired child to sleep in his arms. A child with amber eyes like Ryenne's. There was a yearning in him he'd never felt before. He wanted all those things he'd never given a second thought to. He wanted a home. He wanted a family.

He wanted Ryenne.

* * *

What Ryenne really wanted right now was something heavy, preferably made of metal. To that end she had combed the Turner's domicile, as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, from eaves to cellar, unfortunately turning up nothing but a toasting fork from in front of a fireplace that had clearly seen little use. She took it anyway, concealing it in a fold of her skirt until she could safely deposit it under her bed, where it joined Jack's effects, half a loaf of bread, a burlap sack, and the few coins she could scrounge up in a purse. It wasn't much, but she would need all the provisions she could get if she was going to organize any kind of successful rescue attempt for Jack.

Now she just needed a disguise.

Will and Elizabeth had been preoccupied with little John most of the day, taking up residence in their bedroom. Mistress Thayden had taken her leave at sunrise, leaving the address of her apothecary shop with one of the maids - should anything go wrong - and the suggestion that Elizabeth take one or two days of much-needed bed rest. She had also given Ryenne another scathing lecture on the impracticality of running in high-heeled shoes. Ryenne had replied that her ankle was much improved already and that she was hardly a case for worry. Promptly following this statement, her ankle had been seized by such pain that Mistress Thayden had declared a little bedrest wouldn't be amiss in Ryenne's case either. Fortunately for Ryenne, no one had tried to enforce the suggestion, and she'd been left to her own devices. Unfortunately, to find a disguise, she needed access to Will's bureau, which was located in the very room Elizabeth now occupied. As preoccupied as they were, Ryenne doubted the happy parents wouldn't notice if she slunk in and stole a pair of trousers from said bureau. She would have to look elsewhere.

She sighed in annoyance. The only other place she could think of to look was Jack's room, since the thought of stealing clothes from one of the servants – who likely wouldn't be able to pay for replacements if it turned out that she couldn't return them – made her, somewhat preemptively, feel terrible.

The hallway outside of her bedroom was deserted, as had become usual, so there was no one to see her slip into his room. It didn't affect her now as it had before; she had had to make several trips in and out during her scavenging rounds, and had forced herself to become inured to his absence, her worry and frustration buried under her intent to act.

She crossed to the bureau, slid open a middle drawer at random, and, taken by surprise in her tense, tightly-wound state, burst out laughing.

There it was, that awful salmon shirt she had given him so much grief about during their first few days aboard the _Pearl_ together. It was folded neatly atop several other shirts of much more demure, if not downright plain, make, causing it to look several times gaudier than it actually was. She fingered a corner of the velvet, still chuckling, and then pushed it aside so that she could select something wearable. Shaking her head, she decided that Jack deserved the benefit of the doubt on this one; he had either brought it ashore because it had occurred to him that this was the right time to return it to Will, or…it really was his. But she wasn't going to jump to conclusions.

Several minutes later, she was satisfyingly and suitably dressed in a white shirt and plain, brown breeches. She felt lucky to have only been wearing a simple house dress, which had made changing all the easier, considering that anything more elaborate would have involved calling a maid to help. When she checked her reflection in a mirror, the effect of the new clothing was striking: there was a hint of the old Ryenne there, and, despite the difficulties she expected to face in the next few hours, the thrill of adventure brought a bit of an excited smile to her face.

Stooping to grab the things she had gathered from under the bed, she did her best to get it properly into the sack, deciding, rather boldly, to buckle Jack's belt around her waist. It was a bit big, but at least she was armed. She couldn't wait to see the look on his face if she managed to successfully rescue him with his own weapons. It might almost be worth the worry and danger of having to rescue him in the first place.

Taking a deep breath, she fought her rising nerves, testing her ankle with varying amounts of weight. She had reinforced the bandage, wrapping it further up her leg than Quinn had. It seemed to help, as she could now walk short distances with only a bit of a limp. Beyond that, she would have to just deal with the pain.

She glanced out of the window. Evening was coming on, the striated clouds above the town streaked with purple.

It was time.

* * *

This was it. It was time to make his decision: choose the gallows, and hope for some miraculous - and impossible - escape, or give up the _Pearl_ in the hopes of a new life. He knew which way his piratical instincts led, but...

He stared down at his manacled hands, clasped loosely in his lap. He had been sitting here - outside Norrington's offices - for what seemed like hours, though he knew it had been mere minutes since he'd been led from his cell to this equally spartanly-furnished hallway.

He couldn't even remember the walk through the fort. Under normal circumstances, his mind would have been busy cataloguing every hallway, every turn, every possible weapon, and certainly every likely escape route. But not today. Today was so very, very different from what, in the past, he would have considered "normal circumstances." Today, he -

The door to Norrington's office opened and one of Norrington's stodgy, indistinguishable lackeys poked his head out. "Bring him in."

A sort of numbness washed over Jack, abruptly cutting off all thought. All but one: Ryenne. He knew what he needed to choose. This was the hardest day of his entire life.

"Good morning, _Mister_ Sparrow." Norrington offered the traditional challenge, that calculated smirk settling onto his features. Jack didn't even have the heart to play along.

"Have you given the issue regarding Miss Caelar any thought at all?" His voice sounded somewhat deadened, even to his own ears.

"I have." Norrington nodded curtly to the door, sending the lackeys scurrying out. He turned his attention back to Jack. "I trust that you, in turn, have allotted due thought and consideration to _my_ proposition."

Jack had no patience for the stuffy, bureaucratic tone the exchange was taking. Norrington knew full well that he would have done little else but consider that damned proposition down in his dank little cell.

"Your decision regarding Miss Caelar will directly affect mine. If you want my answer, I suggest you first tell me yours." He would have made some cliched gesture of defiance, but the shackles prevented most movement. He settled for a bored sort of scowl instead.

Norrington nodded, the smirk unaffected. "I would be willing to accept your offer to stand as surety for Miss Caelar, provided she comply with one or two... stipulations."

"Which are?"

"Oh, they're quite simple. Actually, the first involves your compatriots, the Turners. Should you agree to comply with the option that leaves you in possession of your life, the Turners will act as my eyes regarding the movements and actions of Miss Caelar. I have neither the time nor the resources to..." His mouth twisted with distaste. "_Observe_... Miss Caelar personally over this extended probationary period. Being her acquaintance, and, presumably, her friends, they do."

"They would never agree to that," Jack pointed out through gritted teeth.

"Unfortunately for them, they do not have a choice." Norrington's tone was infuriatingly cool and dispassionate. Jack wanted to kill him as he continued. "They are known without question to have willfully and with full knowledge aforethought both lodged and sheltered two pirates. Were I to act against them within the full extent of the law as it pertains to their situation... I believe it would be an understatement to say that _neither_ of us would be pleased with the results."

"And what would happen if they fail?"

The other man sank fluidly into his chair, flashing Jack a glimpse of a smirk that had started to look rather more like a grimace. "I think we both know what would happen."

"They have a child now, you realize." Jack's teeth seemed to have fused themselves together, his words escaping between them with a sharp hiss.

"It's unfortunate that they didn't consider the welfare of that child before harboring pirates, isn't it?"

Jack sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to lose his temper. This could be his only chance - torturous as it was, he needed to see it through. "And the other stipulations?"

"Just one other, actually."

"_Which is_?"

Though Norrington's demeanor remained resolute, he paused, and Jack detected what seemed to be the tiniest flicker of... of what, he wasn't even sure.

"Miss Caelar is not permitted to go aboard any manner of seafaring vessel for the remaining duration of her life... however long it may be."

Pity. It had been pity that Jack had glimpsed in Norrington's eyes for that briefest of moments, and it made him sick to his stomach.

"How can you possibly do that?" He couldn't stop himself from asking, even though he knew it was a bad idea. "You're denying her everything - everything she loves."

"Presumably not _everything_," Norrington said with a quirk of an eyebrow. Then his voice turned hard. "I am giving Miss Caelar something that has never before been granted a pirate that did not sign his or her life over to the crown in service. We do not all have the liberty of working so far outside of the law, Mister Sparrow."

"You only obey the laws because you haven't figured out the ways around them."

"A talent which seems to have served _you_ well thus far." Norrington smiled that sad, strained smile once again. "Those are my terms, Mister Sparrow. What is your answer?"

* * *

Ryenne stuck her head outside her door, gave the hallway a quick scan, and, finding it empty, stepped outside, softly closing the door behind her. The lamps cast her shadow ahead of her as she moved by the closed doors of the other rooms, praying that she wouldn't be discovered by any of the house's other inhabitants. Her luck held, however, and she reached the end of the hall without seeing a soul.

She was halfway down the stairs when the front door swung open.

Ryenne froze in her tracks, her mind racing. Her instincts were telling her several disparate things: one part of her mind was telling her to run upstairs and hide, while the other was screaming that the best thing to do would be to hide behind the door as it opened and bludgeon whoever was coming in with the toasting fork before making good her escape. Torn between these completely unappealing options, she found herself unable to move or make any decision at all...

...Which turned out to be the best decision, as Jack stepped into the house and shut the door behind him.

For a moment, she couldn't even breathe, couldn't stop the sack from falling from her unresponsive fingers. At the noise of it hitting the stairs, Jack looked up at her, and his face was filled with such a heartbreaking combination of sadness and tenderness that her breath came back in gasping sobs, and she stumbled down the stairs to his open arms.

"Jack! You're safe!" His arms around her were filthy and smelled faintly of mildewed hay, but they were also warm and whole and alive. She dug her fingernails into the back of his ridiculous powder blue jacket, not wanting to let go for anything. "You're _alive_!"

"Of course I'm alive, love." His voice was muffled into her shoulder, but she could still hear it crack on the last note. Much to her surprise, he began to pull away.

She let him.

She let him thumb away the hot tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, let him cradle her face in his hands. His eyes were so full of loss, so full of yearning... she thought she would drown in them.

And then he kissed her.

There was nothing hesitant in that kiss. It was a storm at sea, it was a dizzying waltz. Into it was poured all that Jack was - every word, every look, every gesture. And into it, Ryenne gave all that she could ever be... it wasn't enough. She wanted to give more.

It was over far too soon.

Jack's eyes were glazed, but there was a hunger there Ryenne had never seen in him. Nevertheless, she recognized it. The memory of it made her shudder.

Some of the clarity returned to his gaze. "Ryenne, you don't have to be afraid of me. I won't hurt you."

She brushed back the memories that threatened to crowd her mind, focusing on those eyes alone, that mouth. "I'm not afraid of you."

This kiss was gentler, more patient, but with all the passion of the first. It drew all the air from her lungs. She felt lightheaded.

Jack's voice was rough, deep. "I need you, Ryenne."

She leaned her head against his chest, trying to catch her breath. "Jack..."

His hand cupped her chin, gently drawing her gaze back to his face. The yearning was there, the hunger... and the tenderness. "You have to trust me."

"I do, Jack," she whispered, tracing his cheekbone with her fingertips. "How could I not?"

He didn't say anything in reply. Instead, he drew her arm around his neck, smoothly lifted her off her feet yet again, and began to climb the staircase. Unsure of what else to do, she leaned her head against his chest and listened to his heart beating. She could feel her own, drumming out a nervous rhythm in her chest. She was terrified... but she trusted him. After all they had been through, how could she not?

A question suddenly burned, fever-bright, in her mind. "How did you manage to escape, Jack?"

They had reached the landing. He set her gently down, keeping a firm hold on her waist until she'd found her footing. And then he kissed her again. Tenderly, tauntingly.

"Questions later."

He hooked a finger in the belt she had appropriated from him, raising an eyebrow meaningfully. She felt herself blush. He continued to gently tug on the belt, however, drawing her down the hall.

To his room.

That nervous feeling, the fear from her past that she thought she had battled and put away for good, kept trying to fight its way through her calm trust. She tried not to let it, tried not to allow herself to even hesitate in the doorway.

Jack, having taken a lamp from the hallway, swung the door shut behind them and then turned and looked at her. Just looked. Clad in his clothing, wearing his weapons, she felt naked under his gaze. The lamplight turned his eyes golden as the shadows seemed to layer themselves over the darkness of his hair. He shrugged off his filthy jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind him.

_The amber glow of the oil lamp gleamed off of Quinn's bare shoulders, creating rivulets of shadow that ran down the lines of the muscles there._

"Come here," he said softly, placing the lamp on the desk.

She slowly went to him, trying to conceal her limp as best she could. She felt vulnerable in every way. It was hard not to feel afraid, not to shy away. All she could do was remind herself: _This is Jack. Jack would never do anything to hurt me._

His hands went to her waist yet again, to the belt.

"Let me," she said, gently moving his hands away to work at the complex knot she had had to tie it in to keep it on. "It was too big, so I had to…" She shrugged, and he suddenly caught her wrist, causing her to look up at him in surprise.

"Ryenne, love, if this is going to be too much for you, you have to tell me."

She studied his face, read the concern that furrowed his brow. He was just as afraid for her as she was.

It was as if that realization gave her the strength to shut away the fears that threatened to turn this, an experience that she wanted with the man she loved, into nothing more than the same nightmares that had dominated her past. Well, she refused to let them.

But it meant that she was going to have to take the reigns a little bit.

Having undone the belt, she gave Jack a slow, wicked smile. "Don't worry about me, Jack Sparrow. Worry about yourself."

His eyebrows shot up, one corner of his mouth curving in his own wicked smile of interest. "Oh?"

Holding eye contact with him, she put a hand over his heart, sliding it up over his shoulder and neck until she was able to twine her fingers in his hair. Her other arm went around him, pulling him to her until their bodies were flush, the heat of their proximity sending her heart into a rapid tattoo that had nothing to do with her previous fear.

Then she kissed him.

Hard.

She could feel his body responding to hers as he returned the kiss, the muscles in his back and shoulders tightening as his hands went to her ribs, her waist, pulling her even closer to him.

The clothing that had been her shield just moments before was now doing nothing but getting in the way.

She broke off the kiss, pulling away from him and untucking her shirt so she could draw it over her shoulders. His eyes followed her hungrily as he followed suit, their discarded shirts falling to the floor in a wrinkled pile.

Their eyes raked over each other's bare torsos, taking in for the first time all of the new scars each had acquired. Tentatively, Ryenne traced the ropey line of silver that marked where Jack's arm had been reattached to his shoulder. He, in turn, gently touched her cheekbone and throat - marking where she knew several of her own newest scars were.

When his touch moved down to the scar that crossed her stomach, she took his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and drew him towards the bed.

"Ryenne." His voice was rough, and she turned at the sound. When he seemed about to speak again, she cut him off.

"No more questions, remember?"

He gave a brief smile at that, suddenly scooping her off her feet and depositing her amidst the blankets. Her laugh turned to a gasp when, just as quickly, she found him over her, the intensity of his gaze doing things to her she hadn't previously been aware were possible.

"Have I ever," he said in between kisses to her neck, "told you how beautiful you are?"

He had, in fact, and she was prepared to remind him of that, but speech deserted her as his kisses began to move lower. When his mouth brushed her nipple, she arched her back up toward him in invitation, biting her lip. Lost in a sensory awareness completely new to her, she barely noticed when his caresses moved lower still, until…

"Jack." His touch there, where she had been so cruelly used before, sent a tingling wave up through her, and she closed her eyes as her pulse quickened further.

"I know, love," he said gently, sliding her breeches off. She shyly regarded him through her lashes as the rest of his clothing followed, awarding her a view of him that was, on the one hand, as she remembered, and on the other…

Well.

The feel of his hand on her thigh brought back a touch of her former nervousness. A shiver ran through her body before she could do anything to stop it, and she closed her eyes, willing the fear to go away. All she could remember beyond this point was pain.

Jack's fingers brushed her cheek once again. "Ryenne, look at me." His voice was gentle, calm. When she opened her eyes, his gaze was even gentler. She could feel the callouses on his palms, on his fingertips, as he ran his thumb over her lower lip. "Do you trust me?"

A lock of dark hair had fallen over his right eye. She reached up to brush it back. "I trust you."

She had remembered pain. This was nothing like pain. Their bodies moved in sync, his breathing harsh in her ear. There was a wave building inside of her, threatening to pull her under. She surrendered to it, feeling her heart thunder through her chest and her own breathing quicken. Jack's body, pressed along the length of hers, tensed, and she had to bite back a cry of pleasure. His voice, rough with fatigue, almost startled her when he spoke again.

"I love you, Ryenne."

His face was calm, but his eyes were hesitant, afraid. Afraid she wouldn't love him back, the silly man. He had no idea how long she had been waiting for those words. Her heart was swelling with such happiness, she could hardly breathe. Drawing his face back down to hers, she kissed him with all of the joy she had in her.

"I love you more than you could possibly imagine."

* * *

"Those are my terms, Mister Sparrow. What is your answer?"

Jack stared over the other man's shoulder, out a wide window that faced the sea. His crew would never forgive him. He could hardly forgive himself... But there it was again, that image, that hope: a life, a home... _Ryenne_.

He should have felt as though a cage were closing around him. Instead, he felt strangely free. It was bittersweet - both a beginning and an end. Outside the window, the sun was setting in a cascade of wine-colored sparkles. It was beautiful.

"Commodore... I accept."


	58. The Letter

Will let the letter drop to the table, unable to keep from reading and re-reading the scripted closing:

_I remain most respectfully yours,_

_James Norrington, Commodore_

The rest of the words were a blur, and he wished to God he had at least waited until Elizabeth was awake before breaking the crimson seal. It didn't matter now. What was done couldn't be undone. And from the way it looked, much more had been done than he could even fathom. He knew exactly who to blame for it.

He needed to find Jack.

Norrington's letter had stated that Jack had been released the previous night and given three days to gather his belongings before reporting to the dock. Will had been busy with Elizabeth and John all evening, and had fallen into bed exhausted. He could not see any reason why Jack wouldn't have come straight back, so he could very well be here already.

And if he wasn't, well, Will would just have to turn Port Royale upside down until he was found.

His heart heavy, Will began the climb the stairs, the re-folded letter in his pocket. He would just have to take this day one minute at a time.

With relief, he saw that the door to Jack's room was slightly ajar. Without a second thought - a decision he would come to regret later - Will shoved it open, letting it slam violently against the wall as it swung. The crash of the door was followed by a series of muffled thumps and curses, and Will saw a flash of Ryenne's horrified expression as she darted under the covers. After a moment of furious scuffling, the bed's other occupant was forcibly shoved to the floor, landing in a tangle of arms, legs, and blankets.

"What in the seven hells -" Jack cut off, mid-curse, and poked his head out from behind the bed.

"Um," said Will, most eloquently. He blinked several times, trying not to take in what he was seeing.

"Ah," added Jack, whose hair was in complete disarray.

"Will, PLEASE GET OUT," said a muffled Ryenne from under the covers, finally giving Will the impetus to back out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a sharp snick. He leaned his forehead against it, closing his eyes.

"Jack, when you have a moment, I need to speak with you." He prayed Jack would have a moment sooner rather than later. This morning could not get any worse.

The piteous wail of a crying infant suddenly echoed through the hall, drawing an exhausted sigh from Will. All the commotion must have woken little John, whom he had only coaxed into slumber a mere few hours before. He was wrong: this morning could - and seemed determined to - get much, much worse.

Throwing a last sheepish glance at the door behind him, Will set off down the hall to see what was ailing his outspoken son.

* * *

Jack had little trouble finding Will when he finally set out to look for him, nearly an hour after their... embarrassing encounter. All he needed to do was follow the lusty wail emanating from what Ryenne had assured him was Will's little son. It had been infinitely harder convincing himself to leave his bedchamber in the first place, but Ryenne had finally won him over. Whatever had made Will angry enough to make such an entrance was surely worth hearing as soon as possible. Of course, the little hypocrite herself had made no such moves to leave. Jack's mouth twisted into a wry grin as he remembered exactly why it had taken him nigh unto an hour to don a pair of trousers and make his way to the door.

Putting that from his mind, he knocked lightly on the door to the master bedroom.

"It's me," he called, listening with raised eyebrows as the wailing of the infant within suddenly turned to a satisfied burble. Will stepped outside, looking utterly drained.

"It's about time," he said, pushing by Jack to head downstairs.

"Sorry, mate, it was just...well, _you know_." It was only loyalty to Will and the wanness of his features that made Jack apologize; he wasn't very sorry at all. Every moment spent with Ryenne was a moment well spent, and he needed as many of them as possible.

"Huh," grumped Will.

"How's the little one?" Jack inquired as they entered Will's private study, where the other man slumped into an overstuffed armchair with a groan.

"Well enough, I suppose. He fusses terribly when I hold him, though, and Elizabeth can't have him all the time. You'll see him later, I'm sure."

"Is that why you needed to speak to me? Congratulations, by the by."

Will leveled him with a no-nonsense glare. "You know damn well why I wanted to speak to you." He fished in his coat pocket for a moment before drawing out a letter that was only very slightly battered and brandishing it at Jack. "Would you care to explain this?"

Jack didn't even need to glance at the broken seal to know who the letter was from. The expression on Will's face spoke volumes. Not to mention the events of the past few days...

"I had no choice," he said quietly.

Will's dark eyes bored into him. "No CHOICE? Jack, there is _always_ a choice. You taught me that. How could you choose _this_?"

"Taught you that, did I? Well, perhaps you're right," Jack responded, his own temper beginning to simmer. "Perhaps I should have chosen death. For myself. For Ryenne. Pardon me for having some will to live, even if it is under the aegis of one such as Norrington."

Will's eyes widened as he sat forward in his chair. "Have you lost your mind? What about escape, Jack? It's still not too late!"

"What's your plan then, Mr. Turner? I hope you have one, because I can think of no conceivable way to get out of this situation intact." He chipped away at the seal's wax, both furious and hopeless at the same time. "This is the only way."

"That's not true!" Will sprang to his feet and began to pace frantically. "I could –"

"_No!_" The sharpness in his tone almost surprised Jack himself. "I won't involve you in all of –"

Will slammed his fist down on his desk, sending a stack of papers cascading to the floor. "Dammit, Jack! You've _already_ involved me!" Some of his anger seemed to fade, and he sank back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. "You can't ask me to be Ryenne's jailer, Jack. How could I do that to her? How could _you_ to that to her?"

"I'm trying to do what's best for her!" Will's anger may have been fading, but Jack's was just building. "I've sacrificed everything to give her this one chance at a normal life!"

"How do you know that's what she wants?"

"It's what _I_ want!" The words came out of Jack's mouth before he even knew he was thinking them. And, as soon as they left his mouth, he was ashamed of them. From the shock and disappointment on the other man's face, he gathered that Will was too.

The silence was deafening, uncomfortable as shackles, as Jack watched the expression on Will's face harden into an emotionless mask. When he stood up to leave, Jack broke the silence, the desperation in his voice almost as shameful as his selfishness.

"I can't run forever, Will." He ran his finger over the mutilated sealing wax. "Neither can she. We have this one chance - _just one_ - to stop running forever. Like everything, it has its price. For all of us."

Will's face didn't soften. "Have you told her?"

"Not yet."

"I think you should." Jack recognized the words as a dismissal. And, strange though it was to be dismissed by Will, he respected the man enough to comply.

* * *

Ryenne stretched in bed, delighting in the luxurious feel of muscles that were sore for reasons that made the corners of her mouth turn up in a slow smile. She just wanted to lie in bed until Jack came back; she kept thinking of several new things she wanted to try with him, and he had promised not to be too long with Will.

The thought of Will's odd behavior earlier made her frown slightly. She didn't blame him for being startled when he had burst in on them, and she certainly wasn't going to allow herself to be embarrassed about it, but what worried her was the look he had had on his face when he had first flung open the door. It had been a look of both deep concern and anger, and it seemed to her that if he had somehow found out about Jack's return - which clearly he had - his reaction should have been somewhat different.

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed a waste to lie in bed. She and Jack would have plenty of time to themselves later, and perhaps a bit to eat would help her think more clearly. (It was amazing to her how much of an appetite their early-morning romp had given her.)

Wrapping herself in Jack's top sheet, she peeked through the door that separated her room from his. There was no sign of Mary, or a maid of any kind - the coast was clear.

She quickly chose a light green housedress that had become one of her favorites - one that didn't require any help to don - and took a last glimpse of herself in the mirror. The face that was smiling back at her was the same old Ryenne, but with a new touch of happiness, new color to her cheeks. She also had a horrible case of bed-hair. But it didn't matter. She was happy. Purely and incandescently happy. All she needed now was a cup of tea, a piece of toast with jam... She practically skipped down the stairs, almost running into Mary as she did so. The young maid just smiled and shook her head, scurrying past with a bundle of clean linens. Something tugged in the far corners of Ryenne's memory at the sight of those white sheets.

_She laid on a bed with white sheets...her head resting on Jack's bare chest... He had his arm around her, his fingers twined in her hair and a contented smile upon his face - like a cat that'd just helped himself to a bowlful of cream..._

How very strange. The memory made her happiness seem even more impossible and dreamlike.

She swept through the open dining room door, still puzzling over the strange workings of her mind. She didn't notice the room's other occupants until it was much too late to escape notice. Thankfully, John's birth seemed to have quelled some of Elizabeth's more... vicious instincts. At the moment, she looked more exhausted and harried than anything else. Ryenne's entrance had even brought a look of relief to her face. It made Ryenne suspicious.

"Thank goodness!" Elizabeth climbed wearily to her feet, proffering her gurgling, drooling little son at Ryenne. "Could you hold him for a moment? I feel like I haven't eaten in days!"

"Oh..." Taken by surprise, Ryenne automatically held her arms out for the baby. For a moment she regretted it - and then John grinned up at her with his toothless little mouth, and she couldn't help smiling in return.

"I think he likes you," Elizabeth said in between enthusiastic bites of toast. She was wolfing down her food like a woman who didn't know when her next meal was going to come.

Ryenne didn't know what to say in reply. This was more friendly conversation than she had ever had with Elizabeth, who had always seemed somewhat formidable and unapproachable when she wasn't being downright hostile.

"Jack came back," Ryenne blurted suddenly. That seemed like something Elizabeth would want to know.

"Really?! That's wonderful. I knew he would. Jack always lands on his feet." Elizabeth shot her a confident look, and Ryenne wished she could have had some of that reassurance yesterday, when she had been convinced that the only way to bring him back was a harebrained rescue attempt. She felt thoroughly silly.

"How did he manage it this time?"

"I haven't the slightest idea." Though it wasn't for a lack of trying. However, every time she had brought the subject up, Jack had knocked it aside with a simple "questions later."

This didn't seem to faze Elizabeth in the slightest. "I'm sure he's going to dazzle us all with the story at some point. He's probably just waiting for the opportune moment."

Ryenne laughed, feeling slightly uneasy now that the question of Jack's actual escape had been broached. "Yes, probably."

John, likely sensing that neither of the women's attention was focused on him, began fussing. Elizabeth seemed about finished with her breakfast so Ryenne handed him back over, relieved when he quieted down almost instantly.

"So tell me, Ryenne," Elizabeth began as Ryenne seated herself and started her own breakfast. "How _are_ you and Jack?" Her keen stare made Ryenne feel a bit too...examined. She tried not to squirm, tried to conjure back up the blissful calm she had felt not half an hour ago.

"We're..." The question was ambiguous, but Ryenne had little doubt as to what Elizabeth meant. "We're good," she finished lamely.

Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow. "He more than cares for you, you know."

"Yes, I know." Ryenne pushed her eggs around with her fork. Then she looked up at Elizabeth. "I love him," she said boldly, flushing slightly.

The other woman's smile said that she was pleased. "This might be a whole new start for Jack. Going after you may have been the most selfless thing he's ever done. He's becoming a completely different person."

"Is that a good thing?"

"It's a very good thing."

Ryenne couldn't help but smile herself. It faded when she remembered what she had been meaning to say to this woman for weeks, what she had not yet had the courage to say. Taking a deep, calming breath, she steeled herself for what was to come.

"Elizabeth, there's something I've been meaning to tell you..."

* * *

Elizabeth certainly had a lot to mull over, and mull she did, after Ryenne had taken her leave. That conversation had been the longest the two women had ever had, and the first one that neither Jack, nor Will, had any part in. It was also the first time either one of them had broached the subject of Ryenne and Will's past relationship. As it turned out, Elizabeth had very little to worry about - the two of them had been childhood playmates, and though Ryenne may have harbored a girl's crush for her young companion, she had no intention of acting upon it now. In fact, Will was far from being the man Ryenne yearned for.

It was strange to think of Jack Sparrow being loveable, adored. It was even stranger to think of him loving this woman in return. Not that there was anything wrong with Ryenne. She was just so... average. Pretty enough, but average. The women Jack had shown any sort of affection for in the past - and Elizabeth hardly counted herself among these - had a certain... bawdy quality. Ryenne seemed incredibly mouse-like in comparison. It was puzzling. Still, it didn't much matter. The important thing was that Jack was settling down, and Jack settling down meant an end to the trouble he was always pulling down over everyone's heads. Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. She and Will would finally have some peace.

The thought barely had time to sink in before the dining room door creaked open once again to admit Will. His harried expression did not bode well for Elizabeth's half-formed hope.

"Lizzy, dear, I have something I need to tell you."

Will was not surprised to see the hard frown forming on Elizabeth's features as she scanned the second official letter they had received in the past few days. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had crumpled the damn thing into a ball and thrown it in his face, had stormed out of the room in a huff. What did surprise him were the first words out of her mouth upon finishing.

"Does Ryenne know about this?"

He shook his head, puzzled at the sadness in her eyes. Anger he could have understood – she hadn't shown much fondness for the other woman since… well, since everything had happened – but she now showed more regret than fury. She handed the letter back with trembling fingers and kissed him lightly on the cheek before scooping wiggly little John out of his arms. It was baffling. _Women_ were baffling. He scanned the letter again, convinced it couldn't possibly be the same one he'd read earlier. But it was. It was all there, the same as it had been the first hundred times he had read it. _…so we remand Miss Caelar into your custody for the time being, in due course with our judgment, and remind you of the aforementioned conditions of her stay…_

He brandished the parchment at Elizabeth, nearly shaking with suppressed confusion and frustration. "Doesn't this upset you in the slightest?"

Her lips were pressed in that tight line he'd seen much too often of late. "It does, but…"

"But what?"

"She's a prisoner now."

"Yes, and we are to be her _jailors_." The word left a sour taste in his mouth. He did not relish the thought of keeping Ryenne penned up like an animal. It would not be easy, at any rate. She wouldn't make it easy. She and Elizabeth were of much the same temperament – restless and untamable.

Suddenly his wife's strange reaction made sense. It was sympathy, from one wild soul to another. He watched as Elizabeth pressed her cheek against John's forehead, curled his tiny fingers around her own. The life she had chosen might seem tame to the unknowing, but she had fought tooth and nail for it. Securing it had been her grand adventure. But Ryenne…

"She's lost everything." Everything she had fought for, had spent years building, had been taken from her before she could even taste the joy of it. She had nothing left. "_Everything_."

"Not everything," Elizabeth's smile was bittersweet. "She still has us."

* * *

Jack shifted against the crate he was leaning against, stretching his legs out in defiance of the dust that coated every surface in the Turner's attic. The dark gloom suited his mood, the quiet stillness only broken by his breathing. He had an errand to do, but he needed time to think, first. To plan. The night he and Ryenne had spent together, while wonderful, had also thrown into sharp perspective how tenuous and new this stage of their relationship was.

If the bargain he had been forced to strike with Norrington had only affected _him_, he could have more easily imagined them coming through it unscathed, possibly even stronger. But a deal like that would have been paradise compared to the reality of the situation, and paradise, he knew, was not something that someone like him needed to be dwelling on. "Make the best of it" seemed to have become his new motto somewhere along the way, and this recent, pragmatic outlook was just plain unpleasant.

Jack shifted again, sending up a cloud of dust. His clothes would be filthy, but he couldn't make himself care. The task he was avoiding was pressing on him, making his mind run round in circles.

_"We have not yet discussed the matter of compensation."_

_"Compensation?"_

_Norrington's mouth quirked. "Had you not arrived so unusually prepared, we would, of course, have provided you everything you needed to remedy your appearance to one befitting of your new station. As it is, however, I must say that you already look quite the part."_

_"Is that all? Because if so, I would like to leave."_

_"You have no interest in what else you will be receiving from this arrangement?"_

_Of course he had an interest in it. He stayed._

_"I realize that Miss Caelar is without lodging here in Port Royale. Should she wish to remain where she is with the Turners, that would be most acceptable. Your pay, however, will include a subsidiary amount designated for whatever kind of housing you prefer when not at sea." Norrington paused, considering his words. "I do not wish to suggest anything improper. I am sure that this arrangement will be...distressing...for Miss Caelar, and if this is an option that will provide...some measure of comfort, know that it's available."_

_He slid open a drawer and took out a leather purse, handing it over to Jack. "Here is your first month in advance."_

_Jack could only sit silently while Norrington took out a piece of parchment and a pen. He scribbled something on it and pushed it across. "This is the address of the tailor shop that will fit your uniforms," he said, his voice quiet. "I suggest you go there immediately. You don't have much time left here, Mister Sparrow."_

_Jack stared, transfixed, at the scrawl. Ryenne's blue dress had come from that shop._

And his second foray into that den of perfumes and velvets had been no better than his first. The pink monster of a seamstress hadn't recognized him, but that fact hadn't seemed like much of a boon after ten minutes on the fitting stool. He couldn't have felt more vulnerable and violated if Norrington had done the job himself. In fact, it may have been much less traumatizing – he feared the pink seamstress had taken quite a shining to Jack-in-disguise. It had been the longest hour of his life, but he had come out of it with three complete naval uniforms – all of which made him look like a complete prat – and something else…

He eyed the box sitting on the crate across from him. He only had so much he could give her.

A loud thump on the far end of the attic caused him to start suddenly as the trapdoor that had let him up flipped over. Elizabeth's head followed shortly thereafter, her nose wrinkled in distaste as she surveyed the shadowy expanse.

"Jack, you had better be up here, because if you're not, I'm going to kill you whenever I_ do _find you for making me look this hard."

"Elizabeth, a woman in your condition shouldn't even be out of bed, let alone clambering about an attic," he said wearily.

"And a man in your condition shouldn't be hiding in said attic twiddling his thumbs when he has responsibilities to fulfill," she shot back – though not unkindly - as she continued to climb.

Pushing the box he had been staring at to the side, she settled herself on the crate across from him. She sneezed, and fixed him with a glare. "And if you didn't want me clambering about, you should have thought of that before you came up here. You had to know we'd find out, Jack."

"Will told you, then, eh?" He scrubbed a hand through his hair, dislodging the dust that had begun to settle there, and prepared himself for the lecture to come. "Go ahead: I'm listening."

She didn't speak for a moment, just sat there staring at him with a strange, calculating expression on her face. It was vaguely unnerving.

"Aren't you going to shout at me? I've certainly got it coming." He tried his hardest to conjure up an impish grin. It didn't seem to be working.

The smallest of smiles crept onto her lips, but her eyes were sad. Sad, not angry.

"What are you going to tell her, Jack?" He would have preferred shouting to that (disappointed) expression. It made his stomach sink to subterranean levels.

"The truth. There's nothing else to tell her."

She cocked her head, absentmindedly beginning to draw in the dust that had already settled on the top of the box with her finger. "Nothing at all?"

Jack sighed. "The chances of her even listening to me once she finds out are very slim, Elizabeth."

"That may be," she agreed. "But once she's had some time to get used to it, what's going to matter is that you sacrificed to protect her. I think that may lend some pull to anything _else_ you may want to say."

He leaned his head back on the crate, looking up at the ceiling. "I don't have time to let her get used to it. I'm leaving in two days."

She raised an eyebrow at him, stood, and began to pick her way back over to the trapdoor.

"Then you'd better get moving."

Jack grunted, once again scrubbing a hand through his hair as he looked down at the box. She had drawn a circle on it, nothing else.

The woman had no tact.

* * *

Ryenne was in the middle of gathering up what few possessions she owned when the knock came at her door. It was timid, quiet - most likely Mary with tea or clean linens. She ignored it, continuing to search the wardrobe for a piece of clothing that wasn't borrowed. She needed to finish packing. If she and Jack were to escape before Norrington caught up with them, she needed to be ready. Clean linens could wait.

Besides that, she had already stripped out of the borrowed housedress. The clothes she had stolen from Jack's bureau the night before were only half-donned. She wasn't exactly decent.

Which was precisely why she nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the door creak open behind her.

"How is it that I always find you in situations like this?" Jack closed the door quickly behind him, trying to conceal a smirk and failing. "It's almost as if you plan them."

Ryenne fought a blush. Somehow it was much easier to feel shy about… _certain things_ in full daylight than it was in the dark. "I don't, believe me."

Apparently Jack felt the same way. Coughing awkwardly, he proffered the package she hadn't even noticed he'd been holding. "I brought something for you."

Forgetting her embarrassment for a moment, Ryenne let her childlike greed take over. It wasn't often she received gifts, after all. She snatched the package out of his hands and danced out of reach of that smirk and fingers that looked ready to tickle. It was much heavier than she'd expected.

"What is it?"

He shook his head. "A surprise." His eyes darted restlessly around the room, finally coming to rest on the battered satchel she'd been packing. "What are you up to?"

"I'm packing. We need to be ready," she turned to set the package next to her satchel, tearing at the paper wrappings. "They're going to realize you've escaped sooner or later."

The faintest smell of perfume washed over her as she lifted her present from the box, and she gasped in delight. Fine muslin in the softest shade of leaf green, creamy white lace at the collar and sleeve...

"Jack! It's _beautiful_!" She cradled the dress to her chest, whirling about to plant a kiss on his cheek.

He was gone.

* * *

Holding the curtain back, Ryenne looked out for what seemed like the hundredth time at the street below. The lamplighters had been and gone nearly half an hour ago, and Jack was still missing. When he had first disappeared, she had laughed it off as merely him being eccentric (or perhaps planning another surprise, the greedy part of her hadn't been able to help chiming in). Worry had eventually gotten the best of her, however, and she had gone to look for him...only to find Elizabeth, who had taken one look at her face and developed an impressive tic on her forehead. As it turned out, no one had seen him for hours - a fact which seemed to cause more annoyance than concern in everyone but herself. A strange sort of tension had settled over the house, and she had decided the best course of action would be to retreat to the safety of her room. To wait. And she had waited. And waited. And waited.

Still no Jack.

She was about to let the curtain fall back into place when a figure emerged from the shadows across the street, moving with steady purpose towards the door of the Turner's house. It only took a second for recognition to set in, and then she was out the door and down the stairs, watching said door open.

"Where have you been?"

Jack blinked, then smiled. "You'll find out soon enough."


	59. Fin: The End

Ryenne watched the gulls wheeling above the rocky strand below the cliff. They were elegant in flight, the graceful curve of their wings describing loops and figure eights in the air.

How she hated them.

There was, of course, one way in which she could obtain that kind of freedom. But it would be very fleeting, and nothing would be gained by it except...

_No._

She forced herself to take deep breaths. It was a mental road she was too familiar with, and she was not going to allow herself down it even one more step.

But it seemed the gulls were mocking her, their jubilance in airborne freedom nature's cruel and direct response to her captivity.

And that was what it was: captivity.

The shackles were invisible, made of an edict by a man she had never met serving a king she had no care for, but it was more than that as well. Love itself had had a part in this, and it was that fact which made it nearly too much to be borne. Jack had saved her life, but in doing so, what life had he left her?

And why hadn't he fought harder for both of their freedom? She had been ready to. She had been ready to give up the land-bound comfort of Port Royale and rededicate her life to the sea, with him at her side. Even if they had had to spend the rest of their days running from the Royal Navy, it would barely have been different from their pirating days before.

Except that they would have been together.

Anger and grief were battling each other within her, leaving her surface numb and cold. The knowledge that she had only limited time to regain her footing only made it worse; tomorrow morning, Jack would be gone. Gone to a new life that she could only have the smallest part in, nothing but a passive bit player in a charade of normality.

A scream was welling up within her, threatening to tear itself from her throat.

He'd told her to prepare for a surprise, told her to don her new dress. He'd smiled as he bundled her into the Turner's carriage, smiled as he dodged her questions. He'd told her to prepare for a surprise… oh, but how could she have ever been prepared for what he had in mind?

The little house had been charming enough, with its lace-frosted windows overlooking the sea. Newly furnished, freshly painted. Uninhabited, for the moment. She should have known what was coming the moment she stepped in the doorway. Instead, she dashed to the window, searching for a familiar ship on the horizon. There was none.

When Jack had spoken, his voice had been bright and brittle-sounding, afraid.

"_I know it's not much, but we can find something better once… Well…once things get better. What do you think?"_

"_Does it matter? We have the Pearl." _His silence had worried her then. She had been fighting to remain ignorant, and his hesitation made it difficult. "_Aren't we going back?"_

"_What if I told you we weren't?"_

"_I don't understand." _That was a lie. She hadn't _wanted_ to understand, hadn't wanted to see all the pieces falling into place… but everything was starting to make sense.

"_I have something to tell you."_

"_What's this? Jack, what _is_ this?" _She asked the question, though she already knew the answer. The papers he had handed her bore the royal coat of arms, Norrington's seal…

Letters of Marque.

How she'd hoped then that she was dreaming.

"_I didn't escape. I was released after… I have to report back to Norrington tomorrow at dawn. Then we sail."_

"_Jack-" _She'd wanted to stop her ears, race from the room. She hadn't wanted to hear anymore. Hadn't wanted to believe what she had already heard.

Of course he hadn't escaped. How could he have escaped the fort unaided? Why had no one come after him? She had been so blind.

"_I had no choice. It was this or the gallows. For both of us."_

"_So… we work for Norrington? I can't do that, Jack."_

"_You won't have to."_

"_What do you mean?"_

A note of defeat had entered his voice. _"You're not going."_

"_I'm not?"_

"_No, you're not. That was part of the negotiation. You stay here."_

A new dress.A pretty little house. She shook her head, still too stubborn to believe it.

"_What are you talking about? Stay_ here_? For how long?"_

"_I… I tried to negotiate with that damned man, but-"_

"_How long, Jack?"_

"_You're not to set foot on a ship… ever again."_

He'd handed her that damn letter then, the words of which still hung about her like chains. They _were _chains, every word, every syllable. _…so we remand Miss Caelar into your custody for the time being, in due course with our judgment, and remind you of the aforementioned conditions of her stay… _The aforementioned conditions. She could never again set foot upon a seafaring vessel of any kind, pirate or otherwise. She could never leave Port Royale, was bound to the island for the rest of her days. The words had refused to sink in at first. It couldn't be possible.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. Her throat had closed tight, her vision swam. Jack's voice had been no more than a whisper through the haze of terror circling her. She could never sail again…

And he was leaving her behind.

"_He wanted to send you to the gallows, Ryenne! This was the only way! You don't want to die, do you?"_

"_I can't breathe."_

She had run from him then, told him she needed time to think. And he had let her go. She hadn't turned to see him standing in the door of that cage he had wanted her to believe could be her home, hadn't stopped for breath or thought. She had come here. Now she waited.

The sound of footsteps from behind startled her, and she turned to see a thin, officious-looking man regarding her from over his pince-nez spectacles.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but the Commodore cannot see you tonight, as it is far too late for audiences. He sends his regards, and asks that you come again in the morning."

Bureaucracy. They would be defeated by petty officials and polite manners and regulations. Better if they had died together at sea. Her throat was tight, and she had to force herself to speak.

"Please tell the Commodore that in the morning, it will be too late. As he well knows."

The little man nodded, but as he turned to leave, something welled up in her that she couldn't suppress.

"And also...please tell him to go to hell."

* * *

Jack was more surprised than he would have liked to admit when his bedroom door swung open and Ryenne slipped inside. He had tried not to allow himself the slightest doubt that she would return. Still, doubt had been all he could do. He had not left her with much reason to come back, after all. He wouldn't have blamed her if she had decided not to. And he couldn't blame himself for being relieved to see her beautiful face again… Until he saw the expression on it.

She had returned, but she did not look happy about it.

He scrubbed a hand through his painfully short hair, feeling familiar guilt well up in his chest. "I'm sorry, Ryenne."

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. "Don't. It's too late for that."

_Too late._ His chest felt constricted. "I see."

She looked up then, and studied his face from across the room, her eyes dark. "How could you _possibly_ see? Don't you realize what you've done to me? To _us_?"

The guilt was suffocating. "It was the only way."

"_You liar_!" She looked mad enough to bite. Her hands at her sides had curled into claws. He wanted to take a step backward. Instead, he closed the distance between them. Now he could see that she was shaking, see the tears in her eyes. "Why did you do this, Jack? I don't understand."

He brushed a hand along her cheekbone, his thumb grazing the thin white scar beneath her left eye. How could he possibly explain his selfish reasons to her? He hadn't been thinking of the best for her, not really. What could he tell her? "I wanted to keep you safe. I couldn't risk losing you to the gallows."

She jerked away from him, as though his touch stung. "No, you prefer to lose me through your own damn selfishness!"

"Ryenne, I-" She cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"I'll stay, Jack." Her hands seemed to relax, but he could hear the defeat and anger in her voice. "I'll do as you ask, but I won't be your sweet little housewife. I won't live in that pretty little house. I won't pretend for you, Jack; you can't ask that of me."

He was losing her. He could not believe it. After all he had risked and gambled to keep her – to keep her safe – he was going to lose her. He felt numb. Things were not supposed to happen this way.

"Of course."

"I just have one thing to ask of you." A tear trickled from her eye and she knuckled it away forcefully. She was still shaking.

He felt lost, completely defeated. "Anything."

"Kiss me."

He could not keep the shock from his voice. "Pardon?"

"Kiss me, I said." Tears streamed down her face now, but she appeared to be denying their existence. Behind them, her expression was fierce. "And it had better be a bloody good one – god knows when I'll get the chance to kiss you again."

"But I thought –"

He did not get the chance to tell her what he thought. She had taken her request into her own capable hands, turned it into something of a _demand_. Not that Jack was complaining; he could not have forced himself to mind _this _sort of demand, nor the demands that followed. If this was to be the last night they would spend together – at least for quite some time – he was perfectly willing to make it a night worth remembering.

* * *

"I have something for you, love."

Ryenne opened one eye, fighting the sleepy haze that was threatening to engulf her, and groaned. "If it's another dress, you can give it to someone else. I've found that dresses from you mean rough waters ahead." She closed her eye once more, stretched languidly, and burrowed deeper into the pillows. "And don't call me 'love.'"

"Hmph," she could feel Jack sulking next to her for a long moment and then the bed creaked, the blankets rustled, and he was gone. "You have to wake up if you want your present."

"I am awake." She waved her hand lazily at him, as if this gesture would lend some truth to the statement.

He sounded impatient now. "Ryenne, open your eyes."

She reluctantly complied, pushing back her sleep-tousled hair. "I'm serious about the dress, you know."

"It isn't a dress." She could see him silhouetted against the darker velvet of the night sky. His head was bowed and he fiddled restlessly with something that jingled in his palm, a whisper of a sound. It piqued her curiosity.

"What is it, then?"

She thought she could make out the shadow of a smile on his face. "Come here and I'll show you."

Though she couldn't see them, she could feel his eyes on her as she slid from beneath the covers and crossed the cold floor to where he stood. The feeling was both frightening and exhilarating. She hadn't felt so much on display since… No. She would not allow herself to think about the last time she had felt another man's eyes on her like this. The darkness was like a blanket, cloaking the shudder she was quick to suppress. Then she was in Jack's arms again, and safe. For a moment, all she could do was breathe in the clean, spicy scent of him; relish the feel of his skin on hers. Then there it was again, that whisper of a sound. Before she could open her mouth to voice her curiosity, however, she felt the cool brush of metal against her throat. The chain of a necklace. Her reflection was dark in the window's glass, its face puzzled, bemused. She watched it bring its fingers up to touch the amber pendant resting against her breastbone.

The necklace was lovely, the color of cognac shot through with veins of palest honey gold. A simple gold setting and a chain as delicate as spider silk. Cool as that brush of chain had felt, the amber itself felt like a spot of fire against her chest.

She lifted her gaze to meet that of Jack's window-reflection. His eyes were black as the night, unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was just as inscrutable, but his breath on her cheek was warm.

"After what I've done, I can't – I know I can't – possibly ask anything more of you. I won't ask for your promise," He ran his thumb over the smooth surface of the amber. "But think of this as mine: I will always be only yours. Let this be your reminder."

Amber eyes held night-black.

"I will."

* * *

Gray dawn was just beginning to lighten the room when Jack gently pulled himself up and away from the bed. Ryenne was curled on the other side of the mattress, knees pulled up to her chest and the chain of the necklace making a thin line down the curve of her neck. For a moment he just stood and looked at her, letting the cool morning air wake him. The sight of her had become so familiar, he couldn't imagine what it would feel like to go days, weeks... months... without seeing her.

He wouldn't have to imagine soon.

There was a package tied in brown paper sitting on the chair. He had put off unwrapping it until he absolutely had to, and now it could wait no longer. He was running out of time.

* * *

Ryenne kept her eyes closed, trying to tune out the sounds of Jack getting dressed. Now that he was out of bed, she regretted the way she had pulled away from him during those final hours of the night, trading the warmth of his body near hers for a solitude that she had hoped would make the transition into morning easier. She had been wrong. Now it just felt like wasted time, and the glint of the pendant on the sheet beside her seemed more mockery than comfort, a weight that kept her from turning and watching the man she loved leave.

* * *

The weight of the new coat felt unfamiliar on Jack's shoulders, the fabric stiff and itchy against his skin. He ran his fingers over the decorative braiding, the brass buttons, numbness creeping through him. His back stood to the mirror; he couldn't bear to look just yet. To look would be to say goodbye to the last remnants of Jack Sparrow, the pirate. Jack Sparrow, the free man.

* * *

There was silence at the foot of the bed, and Ryenne couldn't keep her eyes closed any more. She traced the smooth side of the pendent with a finger, and turned her head.

* * *

Much though he wanted to, there was no point in pretending that it wasn't happening. He had to look.

* * *

She felt as if she were choking, unable to breath. She wished she hadn't looked.

The man in the mirror wasn't Jack.

The man in the mirror was cold and hard, strange. His hair was short and slick, his face cleanly shaven. The deep blue of his coat would have been lovely, would have brought out the warm brown of his eyes, had it not been for what it symbolized. Every angle was sharp and polished: military. Those brown eyes were now flat, emotionless. There was no Jack left in those eyes. He was Captain Sparrow, privateer of the Royal British Navy. Ryenne could hardly bear to look at him.

But then his eyes moved to her face, and they softened, changed. Tenderness and fear.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

She shook her head, unable to find the words that would comfort them both. There were none. "I couldn't sleep."

He bowed his head, fiddling with the top button of his coat. "I'm still the same man, you know." He sounded as though he were trying to reassure himself as much as he was her.

"I know."

"They're expecting me in an hour."

An hour. That was no time at all. She sat up, holding the sheet to her chest. "How long will you be away?"

"I don't know." He tugged at his cuffs, avoiding her gaze. "Months, at the very least. I'm to join a small fleet near Capetown. From there... I don't know."

Months. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. This was hard enough for the both of them already, without making a weepy mess of herself. She could not stop her voice from cracking. "I don't know what I'll do without you."

His mouth quirked into a wry grin. "I'm sure you'll find some trouble to get yourself into." He finally met her eyes, and she saw the tears in his. "I'll miss you very much."

A strangled sob escaped her throat, and very suddenly, she was in his arms. As her tears soaked into the blue wool of his coat, she felt him kiss her hair, felt his tears on the bare skin of her shoulder.

"I'll be back before you know it, love."

She felt like a child, clinging to him as though her embrace could keep him from leaving. She willed herself to stop crying, to put on her bravest face. For his sake. "I'll see you to the harbor."

"Thank you. I'd like that."

* * *

The last time Ryenne had ever felt so uncomfortable at a dock had been when she was fresh from her father's house, new to being on her own and terrified of what the future might hold. The feeling was similar now, except that instead of the undercurrent of excitement and possibility that had carried her along the first time, she felt only an acute sense of loss, even though Jack had yet to leave her side. It was the noise that got to Ryenne the most: the shouting of the men, the echoes of their heavy footsteps on the planks of the docks, and, worst of all, the lapping of waves against stone, the keenest reminder of her landlocked future.

"She's just up here – the_ Fortune_." Jack gestured along the shoreline, indicating a weather-beaten vessel of middling size not far from where they stood. She wasn't a grand ship, by any means; she was a navy vessel. Serviceable. Not much different from the many others that were her current shipyard neighbors. Ryenne felt a sudden pang, thinking of the Pearl's sweeping sails, her proud stature. She could hardly imagine Jack aboard this stranger. One look at Jack's expression told her he felt the same. Her stomach twisted.

"She's lovely."

The look he gave her made her swallow, her cheeks warming.

"You don't need to pretend for me, love. She is what she is. She'll do."

She had to force her voice to remain steady. "You deserve better."

A sudden hailing from the gangplank cut off any further conversation, which was likely for the best. Norrington was heading towards them, stern and immaculate as ever.

"Captain Sparrow."

Oh, how she hated him.

Jack stood up straighter at his approach, however, taking a deep breath. She resisted the urge to twine her fingers through his and pull him away from this man, and this place. But there was nothing she could do.

"Commodore."

"I trust the ship meets your standards?" Norrington's eyes flicked over Ryenne, and she thought she saw a hint of satisfaction in them. She did not bother to hide the rage from hers.

"Yes, sir. She's sound."

He nodded curtly. "Very good, Captain Sparrow. I trust you're aware of the time; the tide will turn shortly, and I want you on it. I suggest you make your farewells with all speed." His full attention came to rest on her now. "Miss Caelar, you will report to my offices on the morrow to discuss the terms of your stay here in Port Royale."

"It would be my pleasure." She spoke through clenched teeth, every syllable dripping with venom.

"Very good." Sparing them both a last calculating glance, he spun on his heel and left. She watched him go, unable to force herself into believing this man could ever be anything but her enemy.

As soon as Norrington was out of earshot, Jack let out a deep breath and turned to her, running his thumb along her cheekbone. "I guess this is goodbye for now."

She turned her face into his hand and kissed the palm, bringing her own hand up to hold it there. The noise of the docks receded from her awareness for that moment, and nothing mattered but the roughness of his skin against hers. Then she was in his arms, his face buried in her hair and hers in his chest. She could feel the tears in her throat, her eyes.

"I can't do this, Jack."

His voice was falsely hopeful. "It won't be forever. I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

When she kissed him, his face was wet with tears – whether his or her own, she wasn't sure. She wanted it to last forever. It couldn't. He was already pulling away, putting on a smile like an ill-fitting mask.

"I'll write as often as I can."

She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound would come. She nodded instead, the tears in her eyes blurring the edges of him. Soon he would be nothing but a dark blue smudge, getting smaller with every step he took toward that stranger of a ship. His fingers brushed against her throat, the pendant.

"Remember my promise."

She felt like a lost child, abandoned there on the docks. One last glimpse of him – that dark blue smudge wearing the saddest smile she had ever seen – and then he was lost in the milling crowd.

Gone.

* * *

Ryenne wandered the streets of Port Royale alone after that. For hours, she wandered. No doubt Will and Elizabeth wondered where she was – she had sent their carriage home empty – but she did not have the heart to face them. Not just yet. They had bid Jack their goodbyes that morning with dry eyes, calm smiles. They were used to him flitting in and out of their lives; they would not miss him as she would. They would resume their semblance of normality. They would not long for the _Pearl_, for the freedom of being at sea. No, they had given that up willingly. Even had they felt that restless urge, they were not bound as she was. They could not understand, not completely. She couldn't go back there, back to their sympathetic smiles and gentle questions.

But she had gone back. She had to. She had nowhere else to go.

Days passed. Long, lonely days. Three, then four, then twelve… She soon lost count. It didn't take long for her to develop a routine to get through them. Every morning, she would don her simple housedress and take to the streets. She had thought that, perhaps, if she surrounded herself with the hustle and bustle of so many other people, she would manage to stave off the sharp tang of loneliness. She was wrong, of course. She was a stranger here. The crowds only served to make her feel more alien, more alone. She cried often. Her daily constitutional soon became more a compulsion than anything else, futile as the action was. She had to do it… because she had nothing else.

Not that wandering the streets didn't have its benefits. She began to recognize faces, learned a few names. There was Laramie, the baker, and his lovely, caramel-skinned wife, Maria Louise. Every morning they paraded through the market square, their trays piled high with fresh loaves and rolls.

Will had taken to giving Ryenne a small amount of money each week, telling her to spend it where she willed. She appreciated it, as she still could not bring herself to touch the advance pay Jack had left for her, but it made her feel even more a burden. She was a prisoner, she was a child, she was a kept animal. Some higher power seemed bent on humbling her to the point of breaking her completely. She should have felt miserable, beyond consolation. Still, it was Will's generosity that allowed her the few small happinesses she had left. One of these was Laramie's freshly-baked sweet rolls.

It had only taken the baker and his wife a few days to realize they had a regular customer on their hands. They began to look for her each morning, offering a friendly smile and the parcel of sweet rolls they had baked specially for her. They didn't inquire about her business in Port Royale, nor her family, nor her lonely wandering. Their interactions were simple and polite. _Lovely weather today. Isn't the market awfully busy? You look well. _Ryenne was grateful for a touch of simplicity.

Sometimes she would run errands for Elizabeth, to keep herself busy, to help repay the kindness she was being shown. They were servants' chores, mostly, but Ryenne never minded. Retrieving a parcel, delivering a letter, buying this or that from the market… What else would she do, if not for these things? Without these errands, she wouldn't have discovered another source of happiness: the bookshop.

So her routine developed further. Each morning, after donning her housedress and bidding Elizabeth and Little Jack a brief farewell (Will having left for the smithy hours earlier), she would make for the marketplace and Laramie's sweet rolls. A brief chat with Maria-Louise. Then to the bookshop. Books quickly ate up her small allowance, as she seemed to require a new one every few days. Adventure books, romance, books of poetry… These she would carry the twenty-minute walk to her favorite place atop the sea cliffs, to read; to be alone.

Perhaps she would have wandered the docks, had she been allowed. She wasn't; she hadn't set foot near them since the day of Jack's departure. Not after the meeting with Norrington – the meeting he had demanded that first terrible morning.

As meetings went, it was brief and altogether pointless, consisting mainly of many variations of "Don't even consider trying to escape," and "We'll be checking up on you." He sat there, so calm, so collected – that horrible man – as he clapped on the final shackles, destroyed the final shreds of hope she could possibly have. As he told her she was not allowed on the docks; not to look for Jack, not for any reason. If she were spotted anywhere near them, she would be thrown in gaol indefinitely.

There would be no rescue for Ryenne.

So she did not wander the docks. She walked, alone, to the sea-cliffs. There she would sit and read for hours. Sometimes she didn't leave until the sun sank below the horizon. Sometimes not even then. As the light left, she would gaze out over the black water. She wouldn't think; just stare. Stare until the moon rose, gaze up at the stars. She was in no hurry to return to the only place she had to call home, to her empty bed, to the cold blankets. The darkness was blanket enough.

One night, under this blanket, she had picked her way down the sea-cliffs. Shed her simple housedress. Walked over the rocky strand, out into the waves. The cold water had struck her like a thousand knives, cutting into her without opening the flesh. She kept her eyes open as the waves closed over her head, as the salt water started to fill her lungs. A blackness had surrounded her then, darker than the night on the sea. Her chest burned. And she had been afraid.

It had been harder to free herself from those waves than it had been to surrender to them.

Will had said nothing – not a word – when she'd stumbled into the house that night, dripping and shivering and coughing. The look he gave her was enough.

She was home before dark every night after that.

Except one. Tonight.

Elizabeth had had more errands for her than usual in the past few days. Pointless errands. She suspected Will had something to do with this fact. Instead of taking that lonely walk, she would find herself sent for a loaf of black bread from Laramie, though the cook had baked two only that morning; a bolt of fabric for a dress that never seemed to get sewn. One morning, she was told Little Jack needed a draught from the apothecary, though the lusty youth had not a breath of sickness in him.

The apothecary.

Quinn.

Ryenne had not been to Mistress Thayden's since Little Jack was born. She had had no desire, no need. Another time, another place, she may have gone to Quinn for companionship… Now she couldn't help but blame him for what had happened. She had lost Jack because of his foolishness. He was the cause of her captivity.

She did not think he would be the cause of her freedom.

He'd been looking for her, he said. There was someone she might like to see. Ryenne had nearly fainted with joy when Barlowe stepped out from the back room.

The _Pearl _had returned for its captain. Too late.

Barlowe had been sent to scout, had found Quinn. The _Pearl _would return in three days. It was too dangerous to linger with Norrington present. She had had to tell them. They could not believe, would not believe her. Captain Jack had been captured, enslaved. He couldn't have…

The _Pearl_ would return in three days, would sail after its captain. She had to decide if she would sail with it. And so she had come to the sea-cliffs once more. Her freedom was hanging by a thread.

Jack had made her a promise. He had bought her a home, he had given up his life for her. He had given up the _Pearl_ for her. Now she could return it all to him. But…

Will said it was her decision. They had gotten out of scrapes before. But this was so much more than that. They had Little Jack, a beautiful home… So much to lose. And it would be her fault if they did.

Ryenne had so much to lose. So much to gain.

There were familiar sails on the horizon.

* * *

Jack stood at the bow of the _Fortune_, feeling the pitch and sway of the deck beneath his feet. It moved differently than the Pearl, but there was a cynical part of him that wondered if, given a week or two, he would even notice. His crew worked quietly around him under the watchful eye of the first mate, a man named Bowen, who seemed competent, staid, and entirely uninteresting. And that, too, was a difference that grated on him. Pirates were rowdy, boisterous, and constantly challenging of authority, even when that authority was of their own choosing; these navy men looked at him and saw only an Authority, someone chosen to sit above them who had nothing to give save orders. He hoped that one day that would change, that perhaps, given enough time, they would be able to see him as one who had more in common with them than they could know right now. That hope was the one thing that kept him from feeling completely, permanently alien.

Despite the loneliness, though, the days passed in their slow succession, one after the other. The crew was kept on a tight schedule, and though it initially took some adjusting to, eventually Jack found a measure of solace in the anticipation of the bells, the changing of the watches, the writing of the log, and the number of other tasks vital to the running of the ship that kept his mind off of Ryenne.

Whenever he found himself alone, however, she always came back to his thoughts.

_She would never belong in a place like this,_ he would tell himself, but it was a false, hollow feeling; she belonged wherever he was, or where he should have been. Where they both should have been. The _Pearl_.

Hard as he tried to keep his mind off of what he had lost, the Pearl had been in his thoughts quite often of late. Where was she now? Still in Tortuga, awaiting his word? How long would it be before they began to wonder, began to hear the rumors spread? Sailors talked, after all.

It was this propensity that, as far as his crew was concerned, also worried him. Bowens had been thoroughly briefed by Norrington on Jack's history, and instructed to help him become acclimated with all aspects of naval life. The man didn't seem to mind personally – opinions on piracy varied widely throughout the empire – but Jack had no illusions that Bowen would keep what he knew to himself, and he had no way to predict the crew's reaction when they found out that they were captained not by a member of their aristocracy, but by an ex-outlaw, a man that, not only a month ago, they would have been hunting. It was a useless worry, though, because there was nothing that could be done in the meantime but try and avert the possible trouble by endearing himself to them, however long it took. His goal was to be seen as strict but fair, a reputation he had had to work at maintaining during his earlier, more flighty periods aboard the _Pearl_. But despite whatever troubles might arise, he would try to be a good captain.

Gibbs would be a good captain to the _Pearl_. Gibbs was captain now.

Jack had to let go. He had made a promise. It was time to move on.

* * *

Nearly a month and a half into their cross-Atlantic journey, they found themselves nearing the eastern coast of Africa. Despite his initial fear of a mutiny from the crew once his past became common knowledge, Bowen had proven to be more close-mouthed than expected, and everything had remained quiet. Jack still thought of Ryenne often in his hours of solitude, but the dull ache of alienation from his crew had faded as they had become used to each other. He had even become passingly friendly with more than a few of the men, while maintaining the proper level of authoritative distance. It made things easier.

Part of him hated that he could have allowed himself to become even this comfortable with his new life, and the fear that it was leaving an indelible imprint on him was a constant underpinning to that hatred. But the other part was nothing but relieved. If he could endure this for now, perhaps he could endure it forever.

He wondered how Ryenne was faring. He had posted a letter at their last port, but he doubted she would have received it yet. He wished he had had more time with her, more time to say goodbye. Sometimes he wondered if she would really be waiting for him when he finally returned to Port Royale. Often these thoughts were followed by stern reprimand – Ryenne had endured so much for him in the past, how could he start doubting her now? – but they were invasive nonetheless.

He dreamt of her often. Dreamt of freedom, of the _Pearl_ cresting the horizon with Ryenne at her bow. Sometimes he could even picture it in his waking hours, a mirage that never ceased to torture him.

Now his eyes were turned landward, preoccupied with thoughts of the mission to come. Ironic that it was now that his mate came to him, a shadow of concern clouding his plain features.

"We're being followed, sir."

But when asked, the man was unable to say if the other ship was flying any identifiable colors. So, feeling that it was his responsibility, Jack made the long climb up to the crow's nest, spyglass in his pocket. Below him, the crew crowded the railings, shading their eyes as they tried to catch a glimpse of the other ship, which was still too far off to see with the naked eye.

He had expected some merchant vessel, or fellow naval ship; there shouldn't have been anything else in these waters, so closely monitored by the Crown.

But it was neither.

In the magnification of the glass, plain as day against the brilliant blue of the African waters, were black sails.

It was the _Pearl_.


	60. New Beginnings: An Alternate Ending

_ She lifted her gaze to meet that of Jack's window-reflection. His eyes were black as the night, unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was just as inscrutable, but his breath on her cheek was warm._

_ "After what I've done, I can't – I know I can't – possibly ask anything more of you. I won't ask for your promise," He ran his thumb over the smooth surface of the amber. "But think of this as mine: I will always be only yours. Let this be your reminder."_

_ Amber eyes held night-black._

_ "I will."_

* * *

Ryenne gazed silently down at Jack's sleeping figure. He slept the sleep of the dead, the careless and uncaring, the corners of his mouth pulled down into a frown. He hadn't moved when she left her place next to him, had not so much as stirred in his sleep as she gathered her things. She wanted to lean in and kiss his brow, but she could not bear the thought of waking him. In an hour's time, he would rouse and discover her absence on his own. It was better that he didn't see her leaving.

She had thought about leaving a note, even gone so far as to sit and pen a few lines. But the words had seemed clumsy and empty, and could never explain her reasons properly. He would not understand. So she left what remained of her attempt at a goodbye in pieces in the fireplace.

In the end, she had simply brushed her hand across his hair, so clean and dark and soft, lightly enough that she barely touched it. Then, she slung her small bag over her shoulder, and shut the door silently behind her.

The house was completely still as she made her way down the stairs, and she felt her way through the heavy darkness. She felt locked in by the silence, a strange feeling of both distance and containment. She would not let her mind fixate on what she was leaving behind, who was leaving her. That part of her life was over. It was time to move on, and in moving on, attempt to survive. The amber pendant he had given her still burned against her chest. A reminder of the promise he had made. She had promised only to remember it, nothing more. And she would remember; the shadows of the future they could have had would haunt her always.

Was it fair, what she was doing? Perhaps not. It would doubtlessly make his leaving that much harder on him. But was the bargain that Jack had made fair? She was a prisoner now, because of it. She had gained nothing, and what she had lost...

She had her hand on the knob of the front door when Will's voice drifted from the sitting room to her right.

"You're not the only one he's leaving, you know."

She stopped dead in the hallway, but didn't turn. She couldn't meet his eyes, couldn't stand seeing the hard truth she knew would be in them. "You can't possibly know what I feel -"

"No, but I -"

" - So don't try to pretend that you do." The knob was like ice beneath her fingers. All she had to do was turn it and step outside. Somehow she couldn't make herself do those simple things. She closed her eyes as a sudden wave of weariness washed over her. "I can't stay here and watch him go. I can't."

Will was silent for a long moment. "Think of how hard you're making this for him. If you could just wait... Until he wakes up, at least. Let him leave with some peace of mind."

"And what do I get?" She opened her eyes to the darkness, expecting to feel the prick of hot, angry tears. Strangely, they were dry. "An empty little house? An empty bed? An empty life, chained to this bloody island!" Finally, she turned to meet Will's gaze. She expected to see some shred of sympathy there, or even anger, but his eyes were cold and hard.

"He was trying to build a life for you, a home."

"I didn't ask for a home."

He grimaced, struggled to repress it. "He didn't want you to have to run anymore."

She twisted the doorknob back and forth restlessly. "Maybe I liked running."

"So run then!" He threw down the book he'd been holding and erupted onto his feet, closing the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat. "Run away, you selfish girl! Go ahead and slink out that door! But don't expect me to defend your honor when he asks why you did."

Tears would have been a relief compared to the emptiness she felt at that moment. None would come.

She didn't stay to watch him storm away.

Outside, pale light was beginning to wash over the streets. The outlines of the buildings were hazy through a mist just beginning to dissipate, and the trees, thick with dark foliage, seemed to loom over her. She stood for a moment, unsure, and then began to hesitantly walk. Her feet, apparently, knew where they were going, though her heart was torn.

Her footsteps echoed on the empty street as she made her way down the sloping hill that ran by the Turner's house to the neighborhood below, the one closer to the docks. There, the houses were not quite so grand, though still neat and well-kept.

She stopped in front of one in particular.

There it was, just as she had seen it only the day before. Lace curtains in the dark windows, and the sun just beginning to outline its peaked roof.

Her house.

She fished the shiny brass key Jack had given her out of the pocket of her dress and turned it over in her fingers. Then, she put it – very decisively - in the lock and opened the door. The entryway was dark, and immediately she felt the emptiness of the house pressing down on her. This was a terrible idea, she knew, but it was as if she didn't have full control over her body.

Almost trying to resist its pull now, she stepped further into the house. Her mind fought against the pressing emptiness, and images of how this might have - _should_ have - been flashed before her mind's eye.

She hadn't had a home since she was sixteen, and even then it hadn't been much of a home. Her father had craved a son, which she was not, and her mother had been even more distant than he. The only home she had known was the cozy little cottage the Turners had occupied. There had always been a fire in the hearth there, smells of baking and cooking... As a child, it had been her dream to replicate the feeling of that happy place.

And then she had met Quinn. Having a home was no longer an issue, nor a priority; a pirates' home was his ship. His crew was his family. But now she had neither ship nor crew. All she had was an empty house and no one to share it with. No one to build a life with. No one to build a life for.

She tried, for a moment, to imagine herself a life in the little house with its papered walls and lacy windows. Tried to imagine placing wildflowers in a glass under the window, the smell of baking bread… But she couldn't bake. She couldn't cook. She knew nothing about keeping a home.

And there it was, the one thing she had tried to face, over and over again, and always failed to reconcile: she did not fit. Not here, not anywhere. A weak pirate, an independent daughter. A free woman chained to a past she would never be able to expunge from her being. And now, a prisoner who would not take the refuge given her.

There was a stack of stationery on the writing desk in the corner – an interesting addition she had not immediately noticed. Presumably Jack thought she would wish to write someone. Him, perhaps? She crossed to the desk – a truly beautiful chestnut creation, carved with swirls of vines and leaves – and ran her fingers over the expensive vellum. A pen lay next to it. Impulsively, she picked it up and scrawled the only goodbye she could manage.

_I'm sorry. I tried._

The door, with its newly oiled hinges, closed behind her with barely a whisper of sound.

* * *

Jack woke with a shiver, like a bucket of cold water had been sloshed over him. He stared at the wall for a moment, willing the gray light diffused through the room to gather itself back up and return to the sun. It had no business being here already.

He lay still for a few moments longer, running through the things he would need to do in his mind. He had some time before he had to be aboard, but not much. Every moment had to count, because they would be the last of his old life, the last he had left to spend with Ryenne. He stretched out his arm behind him, wanting to feel the comforting warmth of her skin. His fingers closed upon empty sheets, already gone cold from her absence.

_She's probably downstairs with Elizabeth and the baby, having breakfast. _The thought soothed him momentarily, long enough to see him out of bed and into yesterday's trousers. It was then that the heavy doubt started to trickle in. Pulling on his shirt as he walked, he made his way down the narrow stairs that led to the family's dining room. He could hear voices. In his hurry to descend, he almost fell down the last few stairs. Why did he have such a horrible sinking feeling in his chest?

Will and Elizabeth jumped in surprise as the door banged open, but the shock was quick to fade. The expressions that followed close behind told him all he needed to know. He would not find who he had come looking for. Not here.

"Where is she?" The words sounded hollow and strange leaving his lips. Will shook his head, looking morose.

"She left, not more than two hours ago." He frowned, staring down at the untouched food on his plate. "I tried to stop her, Jack, but..."

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

Elizabeth must have seen the hard determination forming on his face, knew what he meant to do a split second before he even knew himself. "Jack, Norrington's men will be here to collect you soon. It'll be the noose for the both of you if you're not here when they arrive." Her eyes were sad, but she did not shy away from his stare. "You can't go looking for her now."

There was a tightness in Jack's throat, a burning pain like thirst. He swallowed hard, trying to speak past it. "I promised Norrington that she would stay on the island. What if she -"

Will cut him off with an abrupt gesture. "You can't worry about that now. Go upstairs. Take what measures you need to before..." He shook his head again, as though trying to dislodge a fly. "I'll go find her."

Jack fixed him with a steady stare. "See that you do." He knew the words were unfair even before they left his lips. Elizabeth turned her head away, as if seeing his desperation was unbearable, but there was an angry set to her shoulders that he knew well. Will would not be the only one combing the streets for Ryenne.

They readied themselves quickly, and it all too soon that they were stepping out the door, turning one last time to give him falsely confident smiles that didn't reach their eyes. Gripping the back of a chair, knuckles white from the strain, he nearly shook with the effort of not going with them. He wanted to run after them. Instead, he forced himself to turn and climb the staircase to his room. Little as he wanted to, he needed to don his uniform. Elizabeth was right: Norrington's men would be there before he knew it.

He hesitated as he reached the threshold, glancing around at the room that he had called his own for the past weeks. It seemed suddenly devoid of light and color. The sheets, so pristine and white, still held the impressions of his and Ryenne's sleeping figures. He had to resist the urge to bury his face in them, to search for a lingering trace of her scent. There was a package tied in brown paper sitting on the chair. He had put off unwrapping it until he absolutely had to, and now it could wait no longer. He was running out of time.

He stripped his hastily-donned clothing as slowly as possible, feeling as though he were stripping away layers of raw feeling and leaving only a numb haze in their place. It was this haze that allowed him to tear open the brown-papered package and look upon its contents without a stab of regret or distaste.

White shirt. Trousers. He pulled them on without thinking, tied his belt, dragged on the polished black boots. The weight of the new coat felt unfamiliar on his shoulders, the fabric stiff and itchy against his skin. He ran his fingers over the decorative braiding, the brass buttons, the numbness creeping further through him. His back stood to the mirror; he couldn't bear to look. To look would be to say goodbye to the last remnants of Jack Sparrow, the pirate. Jack Sparrow, the free man.

So he did not look. Instead, he wandered from room to room like a ghost, unsure how better to pass the remaining time until Will and Elizabeth returned. Looking out the windows at the street just made him more impatient, but he could not seem to stay away from them. He hoped he could pick out Ryenne's face from the mill of people below. He knew he would not.

Ryenne's room he did avoid – he could not stand the emptiness.

In one room, he caught a glimpse of the nursemaid cradling John. The baby was crying, his tiny face screwed up in an expression of utter outrage. Jack stood for a few moments outside the room, simply watching, until suddenly he couldn't take the noise any longer.

"Here, let me try," he said impatiently, crossing the room to the maid. She eyed him briefly before handing John over with a blatant look of relief. She was gone before Jack could even think to protest that he hadn't intended this to be a permanent arrangement.

He held the baby away from him for a moment, taking in the dark hair that already curled slightly, and the tiny fists that clenched and unclenched with an all-too-familiar frustration. The child had Will's looks. And Elizabeth's temper. Jack allowed himself a small smile.

Little John seemed to sense the change in his caretaker, his wails suddenly dying down to a series of dissatisfied burbles. He eyed Jack accusingly.

"Don't worry, lad. You'll have what you want soon enough." Jack said wryly, and sighed. "At least one of us will." He settled them into the rocking chair by the window. To wait.

* * *

Will had always thought of Port Royale as a small place, quaint and fairly quiet. Now that he was looking for someone, however, the place seemed vast and formidable, a veritable labyrinth filled with all sorts of nooks and crannies Ryenne could have disappeared into. He and Elizabeth had searched alleyways, shops and taverns, all with no success. They had combed the market, they had walked the pier. Elizabeth had even charmed her way into the fort to view the outskirts of the island from its parapets. No sign of Ryenne. It was as though she had vanished into thin air.

When he and Elizabeth had hurried from the house, leaving Jack behind with the promise that they would return with Ryenne in tow, Will had thought he knew what he was doing. He was so certain he knew where to look, knew where Ryenne would be. But the little house Jack had purchased stood empty.

The door had been unlocked, and there was a note. It was neatly folded in his pocket now. It said little. All it meant to him now was that they had come too late. And they were running out of places to look, running out of time.

He was just about to suggest they give up searching and return to the house – Jack should have a farewell from someone, Ryenne or no – when Elizabeth gave a sudden gasp and began to tug him down a shabby little side street. The buildings looked vaguely familiar.

"I think we've been down this way before." And there had been no sign of Ryenne then. Why should there be now?

Elizabeth shook her head, something like triumph in her eyes. "I've only just remembered. The boy."

"What boy?"

"The cabin boy. Mistress Thayden's apprentice."

The lad, Quinn. How could he have forgotten? He quickened his pace, now tugging Elizabeth along behind him.

The tiny shop sat in a row of others, remarkable only in the hope it had kindled in them. The shutters were pulled and the door shut, but Will gave it a few sharp knocks. There was no sound from within for a few moments, but before he could raise his hand to strike it again, there was a faint shuffling, and the door opened a crack. Quinn's blue eyes peered out suspiciously, then widened as he recognized his visitors.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, opening the door wider. "Master Turner. What are you doing here?"

"I think you know full well, Quinn," Will said grimly. "Where is she?"

The boy shook his head blearily. "She?"

Will gritted his teeth. The boy was obviously being obtuse on purpose. "Don't do this, Quinn. Time is very, very short. Ryenne. _Where is she?_"

Now Quinn was more alert, his eyes growing round. "I don't know, I swear. She's not here. I haven't seen her since - ." He seemed to notice Elizabeth for the first time. "Oh." He began to slowly inch the door closed, eyeing them like a trapped animal.

Will and Elizabeth exchanged looks. The boy was acting very odd. Was he lying? Was she inside?

Elizabeth made the decision for them. "If she's not here, then you won't mind us having a quick look around, now, will you?" She put a hand on the door to push it open, but Quinn tried to hold his ground, sputtering slightly.

"You can't just come in here – what would Mistress Thayden say, we're not even open yet - " His protestations, however, died under Elizabeth's steely glare, and Will was impressed yet again by how formidable she could be when pushed. He followed her, feeling as if he was suddenly superfluous to the investigation, and Quinn followed him, still muttering and shaking his head.

A sweep of the small, cluttered shop and its back rooms, however, proved fruitless. Quinn had been telling the truth. Now he faced them, arms crossed over his chest, looking more tired and disheveled than annoyed. Will felt like a proper idiot.

He cleared his throat. "Well."

Quinn's blue eyes were flat. "Are you satisfied?"

Even Elizabeth looked a bit sheepish as the boy ushered them to the door. "Sorry to have burst in on you like this, it's just -"

"What's she done now?"

"She's gone."

"That sounds like her." Quinn paused, one hand on the still-open door, the other sweeping them out through it. "You said time is short? Why? Whose time?"

"Jack's." Will's heart felt heavy. He would not have good news to bring back to the man whose life, as he knew it, was ending. He would not have Ryenne. He would not be able to say his goodbyes. "He's... going away. He and Norrington..."

Quinn bowed his head, a strange, satisfied smile creeping across his features. "I see. Well," He ushered them the last few steps out the door and into the street beyond. "Give him my best."

The door slammed shut in their faces.

* * *

Will could see the disappointment in Jack's face as he descended the stairs, little John cradled carefully in his arms. He knew he should say something bracing, offer some reassurance, but his tongue seemed suddenly thick in his mouth. He shook his head.

Jack's mouth twisted into a weak attempt at a smile. "I take it you didn't find anything."

"Nothing." Elizabeth sounded close to tears. "Jack, I'm so sorry -"

He waved away her apology with a careless hand. "Not your fault. I didn't think..." He shook his head ruefully. "I'd best go gather my things."

Elizabeth nodded silently, holding out her arms for John.

"She might still come back," Will said softly, watching Jack head for the stairs. The other man stopped and gave him another crooked half-smile.

"Thank you, Will."

But Will could see the exhaustion in his eyes, and it made his own helpless fury burn anew at what Ryenne had done. What he had let her do. Even though he knew that she was free to make her own decisions, he desperately wished he had done something to stop her, tied her to a chair, kept her there just for Jack's sake.

What was done was done, though, and there was no going back. A sudden, sharp knock on the door made him catch his breath, and Elizabeth's eyes widened. He glanced quickly at the grandfather clock that stood in the entryway: eight o'clock exactly.

"Punctual, aren't they," he muttered. When he didn't make any immediate move towards the door, Elizabeth gave him a pointed look. "All right, all right."

Standing on the stoop were two impeccably-dressed naval officers.

"Good morning, sir," said the one on the right in crisp tones. Judging by the scores of brass buttons and gold braiding on his coat, he was the higher ranking of the two. A lieutenant, perhaps.

"Gentlemen." Will wanted to slam the door in their expressionless faces. Instead, he nodded at them. "Please, come in. Jack will be down in just a moment."

The lieutenant frowned. "I'm afraid we're in rather a hurry, Mister Turner."

"I understand that, but he'll be just a moment."

They exchanged stiff glances with one another and filed inside, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Will could not blame them – it was, unfortunately, well known that the Turner's had had dealings with pirates in the past. It had earned them something of a reputation amongst the local soldiery. How could they ever trust the two people who had aided the escape of a notorious pirate – the very same notorious pirate they had come to collect? These men were probably under strict orders to watch for suspicious behavior and escape plots. He almost felt sorry for them, standing there in the hall, so incongruous to the warmth and comfort of his home. Almost.

It seemed barely a minute's time – and yet, an hour – had passed when he heard the scrape of boots descending the staircase. Jack stepped into view. He looked another man entirely, dressed in his Naval uniform. Will could not believe he had not noticed it before. For the first time since he had known Jack, the man looked like an upstanding member of society. He also looked careworn and sad.

"Good morning, Captain." Will almost jumped as the officers simultaneously snapped to attention, offering Jack a deferential salute. Was it possible they did not know who it really was they had come to collect?

"Good morning, gentlemen." Jack returned the soldiers' brisk salute halfheartedly, passing his rucksack to the more junior of the two. "I trust you have everything in order?"

"Aye, sir. The _Fortune_ will be ready to sail with the coming tide."

"Excellent," He clapped a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder, forcing a tight-lipped smile. "If you'll give me just a moment, I'll say my goodbyes and we can be on our way."

Another brisk salute and they were out the door, leaving Jack and the Turner's alone in the wake of silence they left behind. Looking up at his old comrade – now a stranger - Will suddenly found that he had no idea what to say.

"I guess this is goodbye." Jack rubbed the back of his neck, would not meet their eyes. Elizabeth reached out to grip his hand. He flinched, but did not pull away.

"Are you sure you don't want us to come with? To the docks?"

He shook his head. "It's easier this way." He pried his hand from Elizabeth's and offered it to Will, finally lifting his head the fraction it took to see his eyes. There was a sheen on them that looked like tears. "Goodbye, Will, mate."

They grasped hands briefly. Will opened his mouth to speak, but the right words would not come. "Best of luck to you, Jack," was all he could manage. This was all wrong; it felt horribly wrong.

Elizabeth's goodbye was not so restrained. Despite any unpleasantness that had been between them in the past, tears ran in streams down her face as she planted a hard kiss on Jack's cheek. "We won't stop looking, Jack. We'll find her. I promise."

He smiled weakly in return, ruffled John's dark hair. "He's a beautiful boy, truly. I'm very happy for you."

The last Will saw of his friend was the flash of sun on the carriage's windows and a grim, but determined, expression.

* * *

Ryenne had made a terrible mistake, and she felt it keenly. The crowd swirled around her, pressing and crowding and milling about. Dazed and slightly panicked, she stared with wide eyes around the docks. Everywhere around her was the smell of tobacco and fish and unwashed bodies, mixed with the stinging salt of the breeze and the heaviness of the air. It looked like a storm was building in the north, the dark clouds building and moving towards Port Royale, but not blocking out the sun – not yet.

The docks were busier than she had ever seen them, packed with the commotion of sailors returning from long voyages, and of ships preparing to depart. She shoved her way through them all, searching for some sign of Jack, for someone who could point her in the right direction.

Suddenly she saw him, a small, pale man with a thick sheaf of papers. He stood in the midst of the chaos, but seemed untouched by it, watching and making notes with a practiced eye. The harbormaster. She arrowed towards him, arriving slightly out of breath.

"I'm looking for a man," she blurted out. He looked up with an expression of polite interest.

"My dear, as you can see, there are quite a few of them around. Can you be any more specific?"

She felt like a fool. "He's…a captain. His ship is leaving very soon, and I must see him."

He eyed her from over his spectacles. "Ah. I see. We have three ships leaving on this morning's tide, but I'm afraid I must tell you that the storm has forced us to move the schedule up a bit. We don't want them getting caught in the harbor when it strikes, you see. In fact – " He checked a timetable. "One of them has already left. Do you know anything else? Anything that could help me determine exactly which captain you mean?"

Her heart sank and her breathing hitched, but she racked her brain, refusing to believe that it could have been his ship. "It's a navy ship, and he's…new. This is his first voyage as captain. Please." It was all she could do to keep the tears out of her eyes. "I have to see him."

The harbormaster rifled through his papers, then pulled one to the top. He gave her a kind smile. "Thank you, that's very helpful indeed. I know exactly to which you refer." He read from the sheet. "_The Fortune_. A King's privateer ship. Destination: the west coast of Africa, orders classified. Captain: George Caelar. Am I correct?"

She felt like she had been hit over the head. George Caelar. That had to be him. But why had he used that name, the false name he had intended to use as a disguise against Norrington? At her lack of response, he gave her a quizzical look. "My dear, are you quite all right?"

"Yes! Yes, thank you. Thank you so very much." She was about to turn away when she realized she still had no idea where she was going. "Um…where can I find _The Fortune_?"

The little man scanned the long row of docked ships until his eyes lighted on one near the end of the quay. He pointed. "She's just down there. Number seven." He squinted at it, furrowing his eyebrows. "I'd hurry if I were you – it looks like they're just about ready to make way."

It sounded like he was saying something else, but Ryenne was already whirling away, running through the crowd, her eyes so focused on _The Fortune_ that everything else seemed blurred and inconsequential. She was vaguely aware of sailors shouting and cursing her as they were forced to move out of the way, but it didn't matter. He was here. She would see him one last time.

In what seemed like no time, she was skidding to a stop in front of a privateer brig flying the Union Jack, a smaller version of the British flag set against a field of red. Beneath it, another flag flew, though it took her a moment to realize what it was: a black sparrow outlined against a rising sun, set in a field of blue. A cruel joke from Norrington, or had they made it to Jack's specifications? It didn't matter. This was his ship.

And she was too late.

The gangplank had already been rolled away, the lines cast off. If she craned her neck, she could see what had to be the first mate, striding confidently about the deck giving orders. Sailors were everywhere, climbing in the rigging to set the sails, weighing the anchor, and obstructing her view. She scanned the scene anxiously, looking for the familiar build and dark hair, but even through it all, Jack's absence was conspicuous. She watched as the distance between the dock and the ship grew. It was already too late to talk to him, but if she could have just _seen_ him…

There. He was suddenly right there, at the railing, looking down at her as the band of water separating them grew wider. The look on his face was oddly blank, but she held his eyes, willing him to know how sorry she was, that she knew what a terrible mistake she had made. He gave her no sign that he understood, but he didn't break eye contact.

Then the same cold wind that was drying the tears from her cheeks caught _The Fortune's_ crisp white sails, and they bellied out. The ship seemed to leap from the line as it caught the tide, and Ryenne knew her heart was going with it, even as her feet felt cemented to the dock.

And that was it.

He was gone.

* * *

She had come to see him off. But she had been too cowardly to say goodbye, to say the words that her absence had spoken all too easily: she did not want what he had left to offer.

She did not want him.

The anger welling up in Jack's chest left a sour taste on his tongue.

Port Royale was disappearing quickly behind him, and with it, Ryenne. He bid them both good riddance. He had other duties to see to now.

* * *

"Captain, she's close now, coming up on the port bow."

Ryenne stepped up to the railing and raised her spyglass. The ship they had been trailing behind for days was fast approaching now. Her heart skipped a beat when she caught sight of the name inscribed on her hull – the _Fortune_. After months of searching, they had found her at last.

With a grin, she turned to address the scraggly man at her shoulder. "Hoist the colors, Mr. Gibbs. Let us give them a proper greeting."

"Aye, Captain." He called the order to the crew, who let up a whoop of celebration. They, too, had been waiting for this moment. The moment they would reclaim their infamous Jack Sparrow.

She raised her spyglass once more, hoping to catch the briefest glimpse of the man himself, but something was terribly wrong. It took her a moment to realize what, exactly, it was.

The ship was closer. Much closer. Too close, in fact.

And her guns were at the ready.

Gibbs was back at her shoulder in a flash. "Captain! She's means to fire on us! What do we -"

His words were lost to the sudden roar in her ears. There, on the _Fortune_'s foredeck, was Jack. His eyes were dispassionate – staring across the vast space, right at her - as he raised his arm to give the order. The spyglass slid from her fingers and hit the deck with a muffled clang.

She had only just opened her mouth to call the retreat when the first cannonball struck.

Ryenne woke with a jerk. It was the same dream she had been having for six years now, and still it made her heart leap into her throat and hammer violently, made her break out in a cold sweat. As always, she could not banish the image of Jack's emotionless gaze from her mind. She would never forgive herself for what she had done to him, and, if her dream spoke true, neither would he.

It was difficult to believe that it had been six years since she had last seen him; six years since he had set foot in Port Royale, and hardly more than five since-

"Good morning, Mummy!" A small body came flying through the bedroom door and onto the bed, knocking the breath from her lungs. Unruly dark hair, flushed pink cheeks, and big, amber eyes. Rosie was her father in miniature, right down to the impish grin on her little face.

"'Morning, sweetheart. Next time, you might try a longer running start. I think Mummy still has a few ribs left unbroken."

"Okay!" Her daughter beamed at her, and Ryenne groaned inwardly. Children, she had come to find, were astonishingly literal. "Will you come downstairs now? We made breakfast for you!"

"Did you, now? I hope you let Quinn do most of the cooking this time."

Rosie's look was earnest."He let me stir the oatmeal, but he said I wasn't allowed near the eggs."

"Remind me to thank him for that later."

"What, Mummy?"

"Nothing, sweetheart." Ryenne climbed out of bed, shivering, and pulled on a long, thick dressing gown. Rosie was practically dancing around her ankles, impatient to show off her handiwork. Sometimes, she reminded Ryenne of a small puppy, all ebullience and unburdened joy. More often, she reminded Ryenne of Jack.

_Not today. I won't think of that – of him - today, _Ryenne chided herself, following her little daughter down the attic stairs and into the tiny kitchen below.

Downstairs, Quinn had spread a delicious repast on their battered table: hot, steaming oatmeal with honey stirred in, thick cream, and a colorful assortment of fruits to go with it. The smell of fried egg and sausage pervaded the air, and there was a handpicked bouquet of wildflowers arranged tidily in Rosie's favorite teacup – the blue one, with the chip in its rim. A plate of small cinnamon cakes took the centerpiece, though, and Ryenne's mouth quirked into a smile. Her favorite. Quinn was just taking the kettle from the fire as she descended the last stair, and the floral aroma of strong-brewed tea made her mouth water.

"Quinn, you've outdone yourself," she said, taking a seat as Rosie flew by in an attempt to pounce on him. He fended her off with one hand, holding the hot kettle as far from her as possible with the other.

"Yes, well. _Somebody_ insisted on more than oatmeal, it being _somebody else's_ birthday today." He grinned down at Rosie, who was suddenly studiously looking anywhere but at her mother.

"I see." Ryenne feigned a severe look, but then broke down laughing at the little girl's chagrined expression. "Oh, darling come here. I love it." She rested her chin on Rosie's hair and gave Quinn a smile. "Thank you, too."

He looked embarrassed, for an instant like the shy boy who had befriended her all those years ago. "It was nothing," he said softly, though his eyes said otherwise. Then he cleared his throat, suddenly back to business. "Elizabeth said she'll be bringing the boys over later this morning. She has a few errands to run in preparation for tomorrow night."

Ryenne pursed her lips as she reached to accept the brimming tea cup he offered. "Will no one listen to me? I don't need a party."

"Nonsense." He smiled down at her, a familiar twinkle lighting up his blue eyes. "We've been planning this for ages. You wouldn't want to disappoint all of us, would you?"

She sighed. "No, I suppose not." The smell of cinnamon cake wafted temptingly toward her, making her stomach rumble and her resistance crumble. "I guess we can discuss it later."

"Thank you." He set the tea kettle back onto the stove and settled himself into an empty chair, allowing Rosie to clamber clumsily into his lap.

Ryenne could not help but smile as she surveyed her little family and the surprise they had so painstakingly prepared for her. Of all the things she never could have anticipated, alone and empty on the docks the day Jack left, the possibility that she might one day have such a wonderful, makeshift home was top of the list.

Quinn had grown into quite the man: his shoulders had broadened out, and with his sparkling blue eyes, warm tenor, and easy laugh, it was no mystery why so many young women frequented his shop for often flimsy reasons. Still, though, he had never had an eye for any of them, no matter how many times Ryenne had offered to find a flat of her own; instead, he had always insisted that she stay with him in the small house that sat behind the apothecary. Once Rosie had been born, it had just made more sense to stay – after all, two were stronger than one alone, and, in a rare fit of honesty with herself, she had realized that she really did need all of the help she could get.

The last few years had not been easy; though Quinn had inherited Mistress Thayden's apothecary when she passed, it didn't bring in much money, and often he and Ryenne had had to take on whatever odd jobs they could find to help stretch their income. They had fallen into a routine: once Quinn had taught Ryenne all he could about the running of the shop and applications of various herbs, tinctures, and poultices, they had alternated the watching of the shop and the carrying out of their other duties.

The populace of Port Royale initially had not reacted all that well to an unwed mother living in their midst, and Ryenne had born more then her share of scathing looks and backhanded comments anytime she dared go to the marketplace. But with Quinn's help, she had learned that carrying herself with dignity and a certain pride had made her untouchable to the more mean-spirited residents, and now she was at least respected, if not completely accepted. Though everyone knew better, they mostly pretended that Quinn was Rosie's father, and not much more was said about it. It was ridiculous, but it worked, and that was all that mattered to Ryenne.

"So quiet all of a sudden! What's going on in that head of yours?" Quinn passed her a cake, neatly quartered and buttered, a playful smile on his familiar features. Ryenne smiled back, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes. "Is something amiss?"

"No, no – it's all perfect." If only the emotionless gaze from her dreams would leave her alone, it would be. "I'm just happy, is all."

"I'm glad." There was a shadow in Quinn's eyes, behind his smile. Ryenne had seen it there before, but she took the proffered cake and said nothing. She would not think about that – about _him_ - today.

* * *

"It's so good to see you again, Jack! It's been too long!"

Ever since he had set foot in port the week before, Jack had put off coming here for as long as he had been able without seeming rude. It wasn't that he hadn't been looking forward to seeing his friends; he had. It was more the worry that they would not want to see him, or would look at him differently. He had been gone for so long. He _was_ different. It would have been foolish to think otherwise.

Fortunately, however, that hadn't seemed to matter to them in the least. Elizabeth had veritably thrown herself at him, and Will was grinning in a way that tore at his heart with the reminder of the adventures they had shared. Now they settled in the sitting room, enjoying the sea breeze from the open windows.

"No one's called me Jack in years. Strange, isn't it? I've been Captain George Caelar for six years, now." His mouth twisted wryly at the thought. His alter ego, the dignified commander; his secret identity, the pirate in hiding. Sometimes it worried him that the feeling of being split in two was fading. When it was gone, who would be left?

"_Commodore_ Caelar, if you play your cards right."

That was the last thing he wanted.

"Not hardly." He shook his head at Will's quizzical expression. "I'm not in Port Royale for a promotion; it's a test. Norrington says there's been an upsurge in pirate activity in the surrounding waters these past few years. He's trying to see where my loyalties lie."

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. "And where do they lie, Captain?"

"With my family, of course, _cousin_."

She laughed. "Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten?"

And there they were, falling back into rhythm. It was almost like coming home.

"Perhaps it's because our dear Cousin George hasn't stopped by for a visit in nearly a decade." Will poured them all a finger of bourbon from the decanter and flashed him a smile that meant that he didn't mean it as more than a lighthearted nudge.

Jack matched him grin for grin and swirled his glass of bourbon, inspecting the clear, golden light that shone through it. "A captain's life is a busy one. But you've received my letters?"

"Of course. And you've received ours?"

"Of course. Congratulations on little Jamie, by the way." The thought stunned him as much now as it had when he had first received Will's letter. William Turner, now a father of two boys. Unbelievable. He had been a newly-minted father the last time Jack had seen him. "How does John like him?"

"He's a wonderful big brother -" Elizabeth was cut off by the sudden thunder of young feet pounding energetically down the front staircase. "Oh, and speak of the little devil..."

The door to the dining room flew open and a scrawny, bespectacled little boy scurried in, a pained sort of impatience on his face. "Mum, you said we were going to see Rosie today!"

"We are, but not just yet."

"But, you _said_ -"

"Patience, my little man!" Elizabeth's voice suddenly sounded strangely tight. "Enough of that, now, I want you to come and meet Cousin Jack." She turned the boy around, the better to introduce him.

Jack could hardly take offense at the boy's suddenly sullen expression. In truth, it made him want to laugh. The lad was the spitting image of his father, right down to the sulk. "Pleased to see you again, John."

John glared up at Jack through his tiny wire-rimmed spectacles. "Pleased to meet you, Cousin Jack." He whirled about to face his mother once more. "Can we go now! Today is Ryenne's birthday, and Rosie said -"

"Alright! Alright!" Now Jack understood the change in Elizabeth's tone. "Go upstairs and fetch your brother. I'll be up in a minute." She flashed Jack an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Jack. I did promise."

Jack waved her off good-naturedly. "Don't worry about it. I understand."

"You'll stay for dinner, won't you?" She was already halfway out the door, shooting Will an expression that vaguely resembled concern as she went. Jack nodded, hardly noticing. There was something nagging at him now.

"Will, who is Rosie?"

Will suddenly looked distinctly uncomfortable.

* * *

Ryenne closed her eyes and tilted back her head, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face, of the sand between her toes. Even living as close to the port as they did, she always enjoyed coming here, where the lip of the land merged with the tempestuous sea. She could think of no better place to spend her birthday than here, listening to the crash of the waves and the squeals of the children as they danced clumsily through them. Quinn had even brought the tattered quilt from his bed to spread over the sand. They shared it now – he, already deftly mending a shirt from the pile they had brought with; she, basking in the warm glow of sun and sea.

"Are you happy, Ryenne?" The sound of his voice, so concerned and serious, seemed suddenly at odds with the peaceful atmosphere. "Truly happy?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" She brushed her hand over his arm reassuringly and smiled, hoping to banish that grave expression from his face. "This is the first time I've felt like part of a family since I was sixteen."

"We could be a real family, you know."

She closed her eyes again, this time in frustration. "Quinn, _please_. Don't do this again."

"Why not? Ryenne, look at me and tell me why not." She recognized that stubborn tone in his voice and complied, propping herself up onto her elbows and opening her mouth to respond. He was not about to let her, however."Listen to me: I've taken care of you – of Rose – for years. I've helped raise her, I helped bring her into this world. I love her! And I love _you!" _His hand fumbled for hers on the blankets. She did not have the heart to pull away._ "_Why shouldn't we be a family? All you have to do is say yes."

She avoided his gaze for a moment. This was not the first time he had brought up such an idea. She was running out of reasons to refuse. It was not that she didn't care for him, it was just that... "I'm too old and broken for you, Quinn. You need a sweet young girl who will fawn over you and give you ten golden-haired children." She sat upright as he started to pull away, rising slowly to his feet. "What about Mary Howard? I've seen the way she stares at you, always coming into the shop for the most ridiculous -"

"I don't want Mary, Ryenne! I don't want a fawning wife and ten children!" He paced a few impatient steps, then changed his mind and dropped back down on the blanket beside her, cupped her face in his hands. He was so close now that she could see the tears forming in his blue eyes. "I want _you!"_

"I can't."

"This is about _him_, isn't it?"

She bowed her head, unwilling – or unable – to answer. Reflexively, her hand rose to her throat, where the familiar weight of the amber pendant rested. Quinn's eyes darkened at the sight.

"It's been six years, Ryenne. He's not coming back."

"You don't know that."

"All I ask is that you just _think_ about what I'm offering. Wouldn't you like Rose to have a proper family and a father who loves her?" He held up a silencing hand her pained expression and stood once more. "You don't have to answer now. Just think on it." He bent and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, then ran to join the children, who squealed delightedly at his arrival.

"We _are_ a family, Quinn," she said softly, watching them. But if they were, why was it so hard for her to just take that final step?

* * *

It was past midnight when Jack left the Turner's. The stars were brilliant above the deserted streets, and the moon cast a pale wash of light over the harbor, but Jack had no eyes for it. His mind was fuzzy with drink, shock, and exhaustion, the latter a direct result of the former two. He had tried to leave twice after hearing the Will's news, but both times the other man had convinced him to stay, first with the promise of the full story, and then with drink after hearing it. They had finished the bottle of good bourbon and moved on to the wine that had been on reserve for Ryenne's party by the time Elizabeth had returned. She'd been furious, but after seeing Jack's state, had put the boys to bed and gone out to find more.

At first, Jack hadn't known how he could ever forgive Will and Elizabeth. That they had been able to keep this news out of their letters for all these years…he had barely been able to comprehend it. The scale of the deception was just too big. And damn it all, he had _asked_ how Ryenne was doing, and what she was doing, and whether she had found anyone new. They had only said that she seemed well, she was still there, she was working in Quinn's shop, and that Norrington was pleased with her behavior. There hadn't been a word about her _living_ with him, or…raising a child with him.

It didn't matter that Rosie wasn't Quinn's child. That made it even worse. The fact was that Quinn had been there for her, while he had been off captaining for the King's navy, taking only the most dangerous missions and blindly refusing offers that would have allowed him near Port Royale, even for short stays. He had been too angry to even consider the fact that they might have been able to put things right, if he had just been there. Instead, they had deserted each other, and she had built a life for herself and their daughter. A life without him.

After Will and Elizabeth's apologies had subsided and the drink had set in, however, Jack had realized that it hadn't been their fault at all. They had been trying to protect both him and Ryenne, the best way they knew how. What would he have done, had he known that this had been the result of his and Ryenne's brief time together? Would he have reneged on his deal with Norrington to go back and be with them, even though it would have put them all in danger? There was no way for him to know for certain. Instead, he was now a decorated naval captain with a solid career before and aft, and though it almost hurt to think of it, there was no denying that if he remained on his best behavior, there was the possibility that he could indeed make commodore someday. Who could have ever guessed it of Jack Sparrow, scallywag and outlaw?

No, he understood their motives. It had not made the shock any easier to bear, but it also hadn't destroyed their years of friendship. What was difficult was what to do _now_. He had a more than adequate income; would Ryenne accept help, if it were discreet and came through Will and Elizabeth anonymously? Judging from what they had said about Ryenne's refusal to accept their help in the past, he doubted it. Should he go to Ryenne and talk to her, find out what she wanted from the damned woman herself? She probably had no desire to see him, and he was admittedly not all that clear on his feelings about seeing her right now. Will and Elizabeth had known not to make him promise to attend the party the next night, but it was still there as a possibility.

He laughed drunkenly to himself. "Happy birthday, Ryenne. Here I am. Glad to see me?" He tripped on an uneven cobblestone, and the echoes of his laughter died against the buildings.

There was only one thing that he knew he needed, beyond any shadow of a doubt: to see his daughter. To see what his and Ryenne's love had produced, those six years ago.

Wandering through the night, Jack paid no attention to where he was until he found himself on a little side street near the docks. The night had turned chill, and he felt his senses returning to him somewhat. Why was he here? He blinked blearily at the cramped little houses and storefronts until his eyes lighted on one in particular. _Thayden's Apothecary_, Will had said, and there it was, the faded, battered sign hanging above a rough wooden door. There were no lights on, but he trained his eyes on the dark windows of the second-floor garret as if, with enough effort, he would be able to see through them to the occupants within.

The sound of footsteps brought him out of his reverie. It was a guard, making his solitary rounds. He stopped and saluted Jack, who had forgotten that he was wearing the uniform that clearly marked his rank and station.

"Evening, Captain," said the other man. "Anything I can help you with? Not lost, are you?" The guard was clearly trying not to look too curious as to why an upstanding officer was lurking around side streets in the middle of the night, but Jack saw the speculation in his eyes.

"No, thank you, soldier. I was just returning to my quarters. Carry on."

The man paused, then said, "Officer's bunks are all up on High Street. My rounds are taking me that way; I can escort you, if you like."

It would have been suspicious to refuse, so Jack nodded his weary acquiescence, refraining from giving the apothecary one last, longing look.

But as they made their way back towards High Street, where Jack's cold, empty house sat in a pristine line with the rest of the officers' residences, he felt like more of a prisoner of his situation than ever before.

* * *

Ryenne could not sleep. Instead, she paced the floor of the tiny attic room she shared with Rosie - back and forth, back and forth. Quinn's words were still swirling around in her brain, refusing to be put aside as they had been so many times before. Why was she pushing him away? Every point he had made was valid. She cared very deeply for him... But did she love him? She wasn't sure.

Her fingers kept restlessly fumbling with the amber pendant around her neck, turning it over and over again.

She had loved Jack, but those days were gone now. She had thrown away her chance to have a life with him, imperfect as it would have been. Now Quinn was offering her a new chance, a chance at something even better than what Jack had had to offer.

He was right, he had taken care of her and Rosie all these years. He had been there, holding her hand through the frightening and difficult hours of childbirth. He loved Rosie as he would love his own daughter. He loved Ryenne. He had provided them with a livelihood and a happiness that Ryenne had never thought to have again. He was sweet, he was loving, he was more than handsome enough... and the best part: he would always be there. Every day. To help cook breakfast and to play with Rosie. He would not disappear, off to sea for months – years – at a time. He would always be there.

And he was offering all of this to her, a broken, damaged woman with no hope of finding another man as good as he. It was generous offer.

The clasp on the pendant stuck as she tried to unfasten it. For a moment, she feared she would have to break the chain to free herself from it. But it was only a moment. The chain made the slightest whisper of sound as she gathered it into her fist, holding the amber up to the weak light trickling in through the window. The stone, once a rich golden cognac, appeared sickly and yellow in the moonlight. Her throat felt naked without it.

_It's been six years, Ryenne. He's not coming back._

"You're right, Quinn," she whispered. "He isn't coming back."

It felt strangely freeing to say those words aloud, to abandon the pendant on the cluttered surface of her bureau. Freeing and sad; bittersweet. After six years of waiting and hoping, she was moving on.

The creak of the stairs seemed to echo through the little house. With every squeak and groan, Ryenne flinched, hoping the noise would not wake her sleeping daughter. She needn't have worried.

The kitchen looked achingly familiar, even in near-blackness. Ryenne paused a moment, drawing her dressing gown tighter around her and gazing lovingly at all the little things she had come to take for granted. The bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters to dry, the collection of chipped but beautifully-painted teacups, the wildflowers from breakfast that still adorned the battered little table. All of the small things that brought their home warmth.

The door to Quinn's room was to her right, a mere few steps away. It stood ajar, almost an invitation. With one foot on the threshold, she hesitated. If she made this choice now, it could not be unmade.

His face was serene in sleep, his lips parted slightly and all the cares erased from his brow. But for all his serenity, he was a restless sleeper. His coverlet had been pushed from his shoulders, leaving him bare to the waist and her free to study the clean, muscular lines of his back. He was not the boy she had once known. Not hardly.

One of his arms was folded neatly under his head. The other stretched across the bed toward her, reaching for her even as he slept. Beckoning. Shedding her dressing gown in favor of the thin shift beneath, she obeyed.

The rustling of the bedclothes woke him, and he blinked sleepily at her for a moment, as though he could not believe what he was seeing. But it was only a moment. A small smile played about his lips as he untangled the sheets from his waist, lifting them to let her crawl in. She arranged herself beside him hesitantly, flinching when she felt his arm encircle her waist and pull her tight against him. The feel of his skin on hers was something alien, but not altogether unwelcome. Her fingers traced nervous circles over it, trying to memorize every scar and callous. He did not speak, save for a single, contented sigh.

It wasn't long before his breathing evened again, and he relaxed against her. No matter how hard she tried, though, she couldn't close her eyes. Conflicting feelings were warring within her: how right it felt to be held again, how simple and easy their companionship was, how good he had been to her all this time, and still… how odd it felt to be in his bed. Had she made a mistake in coming here?

Quinn shifted in his sleep and the weight of his arm slid from about her waist. In the moment of its absence, her question answered itself. She rolled over and buried her face in his chest, almost frightened by the sudden revelation: she needed him.

The sound of his heartbeat in her ear soothed her. She pressed her ear against his chest, allowing herself to relax as she listened steady rhythm there. In time, perhaps she would grow to love him as he loved her. For now, this was enough.

* * *

Someone was breathing on Ryenne's cheek. Given where she had fallen asleep the night before, she was prepared to make an educated guess about who it was. She was forced to give up this hypothesis, however, when a sticky little finger began to poke her persistently in that same cheek. Rosie had apparently noticed that her mother had gone missing from their narrow bed and come looking. Ryenne sighed.

"Mummy!" Another impatient poke. "_Mummy_!"

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Why are you sleeping in Quinn's bed?" There was a groan, somewhere behind her. It seemed Quinn was awake and listening, as well. "Does this mean I can call him "Papa" now?"

"Not exactly, poppet." Ryenne opened her eyes a fraction. Rosie's face was mere inches from her own, her amber eyes wide in innocent curiosity. Her looks weren't the only things she had inherited from Jack; Ryenne was quite certain that _she_ had never been as doggedly curious as this child. Hoping to deter her from further questions, she swung her legs out of bed. "Breakfast, sweetheart? I think we still have some cakes left over from yesterday. How does that sound?"

Rosie's eyes lit up. "We can have cake for breakfast _again_?" At her mother's nod, she tore from the room, whooping.

Ryenne sighed again. "I'd better go make sure she doesn't bring the house down on us."

"Ryenne..." Quinn's fingertips brushed her arm, attempting to draw her back down onto the bed with him. The question in his eyes shone clear as day: Had she accepted his offer at last?

She replied only with a smile, standing to follow Rosie into the kitchen. "I'll put the kettle on. You'd best get dressed – we both have a long day ahead of us."

* * *

It was shaping up to be a very long morning. Already, Jack had supervised numerous repairs to the Fortune's weather beaten rigging, settled a dispute over wages with his second mate Cary, and sat through a formal brunch with the other captains in charge of patrolling Port Royale's waters. All the while, he had nursed a blistering hangover, thanks to his attempts at forced forgetfulness the night before. But he had not forgotten, could not forget: he needed to see his daughter.

Despite the fact that he was now sober and had bright daylight to aid him, the streets of Port Royale somehow seemed harder to navigate than they had been the previous night. It was nigh unto an hour before he found himself on the cramped little side street he had been searching for.

Stopping to survey the area, he decided that the best way to go about it was to be upfront. He had just placed his hand on the apothecary's door when the sounds of children playing echoed from what seemed to be the back of the building. He tentatively made his way down the crooked little path between the apothecary and the house it practically rested against, stopping at a small, whitewashed gate.

On a cramped stretch of grass surrounded by trees, three children were playing – or, as Jack soon saw, fighting. No – he amended his assessment again. Two of the children were fighting, and one, the smallest, was merely toddling about with a long stick in his hand. It was the former two that held his attention.

A boy and a girl, both brown-haired and red-faced from the shouting, were toe-to-toe, their foreheads nearly touching. The boy was John. His glasses were askew, and his fine clothes were wrinkled and dusty. The girl...Jack found himself gripping the wooden spikes of the fence with white knuckles.

The girl looked just like Ryenne.

"You said _I_ could be the knight this time, John! You PROMISED."

"DID NOT! Besides, you're a _girl_! Girls can't be knights!"

"YES. I. CAN." Each word was punctuated by a _whap_ with the stick she gripped in her tiny fists. Delighted by this new turn of events, little Jamie let out a squeal and toddled over to join in with his own.

Jack did not know whether to step in and save poor, beleaguered John or to laugh. The girl was a spitfire, just like her mother. When John finally managed to wrench the stick from her hands, she came at him with flying fists.

This appeared to be too much for the boy.

"Stop it! Stop it!" He pushed her away, pointing an accusing finger. "You're not supposed to hit! I'm telling on you!" When she stuck out her tongue in response, he disappeared into the apothecary's back door.

Jack took this as his cue to leave. As much as he wanted to simply stand and gaze at his daughter, John would surely be returning with one of two people any minute, and neither was a person he wanted to see. Unfortunately, before he could slip into the shadows of the house and disappear, he was spotted.

"Hello!" How had he neither seen nor heard her approaching? She stared up at him now with those oh-so-familiar amber eyes, her every feature alight with curiosity. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jack." His heart melted when she smiled. "And what's your name, sweetheart?"

"I'm Rosie." Of course he already knew that; Will had told him. Still, it was a pleasure to see her puff up with pride at the sound of her own name. He leaned over the fence, offering a hand she did not hesitate to shake.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Rosie."

"Do you want to come -" Whatever she was about to ask was cut off by the sound of the back door banging open. Jack took a step back, but it was too late to escape now. A figure was rounding the side of the apothecary, and it wasn't John.

"Rosie, what's this I hear about -" Quinn stopped dead in his tracks as he noticed Jack for the first time. "_You_?"

"Yes, me." Jack allowed himself a sour smile as he surveyed his former cabin boy, now a full-grown man by the look of it. He had filled out quite a bit, and his looks had greatly improved for it. Jack didn't like it one bit.

"This is Jack, Papa. Can he come and play with me?"

Despite the discomfort of the situation, Jack found himself trying to quash a smile. The way Rosie had opened her eyes as wide as they could go in an attempt to get her way was just too familiar.

Quinn sighed in exasperation. These tactics were not new to him, and the sudden sting of jealousy he felt at that fact made Jack snarl inwardly. "No, sweetheart. Why don't you go inside and apologize to John?"

"But he-"

"Rose, please. Go inside."

Obviously knowing when she was beat, the little girl trudged away, kicking at the grass and muttering to herself.

Jack wiped the half-smile from his face. He didn't like the look Quinn was giving him. There was something territorial about his stance, the way he had planted his feet and moved to block Jack's view of Rosie as she went inside. "You've certainly changed. You're not the scrawny little weasel I remember."

Quinn's voice was dangerously level. "Yes, well, raising a family is hard work. I'm sure it would change any man."

"A family." Jack grimaced at the longing he heard in his own voice. He tried to imbue it with some disdain. "She calls you 'papa,' does she?"

"Yes, she does." He crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to be baited. "Why are you here, Jack?"

Was that triumph in the other man's eyes? Jack wasn't sure. "I'm in Port Royale by assignment, not request."

"Yes, Elizabeth told me you were in town. But why are you _here_?"

Now Jack was certain it was triumph. He was starting to have trouble keeping himself from lunging across the fence to grab the other man by the throat. "I came to see my daughter." His jaw felt tight with the effort of the words.

"Don't you think it's a little late for that?"

"I don't think it's your place to decide, Quinn." At the flush of anger creeping across Quinn's cheekbones, Jack decided to try to ease the tension a little. Much though he would have loved to beat the other man to within an inch of his life – not the most noble desire, but it would have been dishonest to deny its existence – it was not the kind of thing that he wanted to engage in at the moment. Not with three small children likely to come running if they heard anything. "Where is Ryenne? I'd like to see her."

"She's out," Quinn said, his voice short. "She won't be back till later. _Much_ later."

"I see." Feeling like there wasn't much more to be done for the conversation, Jack turned to go. He was several paces down the path when Quinn's voice came from behind him. He was still at the fence.

"We're engaged, Jack. Ryenne and I are engaged. And we're very happy."

It was like a colony of bees had suddenly set up residence in his skull. The buzzing was all he could hear, and his eyes refused to focus on the dirt path ahead of him. Engaged. He refused to look at Quinn, knowing that if he saw even a shadow of that triumph again he would not be able to stop himself.

He would kill the other man.

So he kept his feet moving. He needed to get away from here, from the daughter who did not know her father, and from the man who had taken the place he should have had in his family's life. He needed space to think, and for this damned buzzing to stop.

Most of all, he needed to talk to Ryenne. Elizabeth had told him he was more than welcome to attend the party they were holding in her honor. Well and good. He would be there.

* * *

It had been quite a while since the last time Ryenne had had occasion to get dressed up. Despite herself, she was rather enjoying it. She and Elizabeth had spent the afternoon in Port Royale's most prestigious dress shop, cooing over shawls and laces and silk ribbon. Ryenne had intended to find something to spruce up the lavender frock Quinn had bought her for the Christmas previous. What she had found instead was a lovely creation sewn of dove gray silk that cost at least a month's wages. Or would have, had Elizabeth not insisted on making a present out of it. Chagrined as she was at accepting such an expensive gift, Ryenne could not resist. It was now draped over the only chair in Quinn's room, waiting to be put on.

It was not the only extravagance she had allowed herself today. With Quinn's help, she had hauled the bathtub into the privacy of his room and filled it with steaming water. She had also stolen a bar of creamy, lavender-scented soap from the apothecary shelves, along with a vial of rose oil. It was worth the trouble, though, when she was in her shift again, sitting amid a light cloud of perfume, brushing her hair and feeling as close to blissful as she had in years. She was even starting to look forward to the party – the wine and music and dancing. It had been so long.

Long enough, apparently, that she had forgotten what a trial putting on fancy dresses could be. The laces had seemed easy enough when the seamstresses had demonstrated them – easier than rows of miniscule buttons, anyway – but it was an entirely different story now that she was attempting them by herself. Taking a moment's pause from the stretching, straining and general contortion she had been performing, she entertained the notion that she might have bitten off more than she could chew. But it was no matter – she would simply have to put on her house dress and wait until she got to the Turner's to put on the lovely new gown. She could be patient.

She was already halfway out of the dress when she heard the door creak open behind her. She sighed.

"Rosie, what did I tell you about knocking before you -" Clutching the gray dress to her chest, Ryenne craned her neck to fix her daughter with a stern look. It quickly turned to surprise, however, when she saw who it was she had actually addressed.

Quinn stood in the doorway, as though unsure whether or not he should enter or leave. The strangest expression was on his face; she couldn't quite place it. He had been acting oddly ever since she and Elizabeth had gotten back. She did not know whether or not to be concerned.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Elizabeth said you might need some help."

Despite her boldness the night before, she felt suddenly shy and vastly uncomfortable. "It's alright. I was just going to -" She shook her head, averting her face so he would not see her blushing. "You should leave, Quinn. I'm not decent."

"Why should that matter?" He seemed to come to a decision with himself and took a few steps into the room, shutting the door and motioning for her to turn back around. "Here, let me take a look at it."

She said nothing as he crossed the rest of the distance, just watched from the corner of her eye as he came to stand behind her. He had gotten so tall; how had she not noticed it over the years? His presence felt like heat, a palpable wave of desire and longing. He was quiet as he first straightened the laces of the dress, then drew the sleeves up and over her shoulders. The brush of his fingers on her bare skin sent a slow shiver through her. After a moment's hesitation, his hands found their way through the open back of her dress, running up her sides before trailing back down to catch hold of her hips. He was so close now that she could feel his breath on her neck. Something inside her cried out in panic, while yet another part cried out for more.

"I love you, Ryenne." The whispered words were followed by a feather-light kiss, and then another and another, working their way from the base of her throat along her collarbone and onto her shoulder. Her breath hitched, despite herself, and she closed her eyes.

"Quinn, I -"

He sighed, resting his forehead against her hair. "Please, Ryenne. _Don't_. I need to hear that you love me."

"I do love you," she turned her head ever so slightly, allowing her cheek to rest against his. She hadn't meant to hesitate, but he noticed nonetheless.

"But?"

She guided his hands gently away from her hips. "But I'm not ready for this. Not yet."

He sighed again, and this time she could hear the longing in it. He bowed his head for a moment, eyes closed and fists clenched loosely at his sides. "I understand."

She felt her heart sinking immediately. She did not want their new life together to start out this way. Taking his face in both hands, she drew him swiftly down and kissed him with all the promise she could muster. He responded immediately, wrapping his arms around her once more and crushing her against him. The kiss seemed to last hours. It was over in seconds.

This time, it was he who pulled away.

"No. This can wait." He planted another gentle kiss on her lips and took a step back. "I love you. I don't want to force this."

She was almost disappointed when he turned her around again and started to fumble with the laces of the dress. And it surprised her. Had she been so lonely, these past six years? She hadn't realized how much she had craved a man's touch until now.

"I really do love you, Quinn." The words sounded hollow, as though she were trying to convince him of their truth. Or trying to convince herself.

"I hope so." The words were so quiet, Ryenne was unsure whether or not she had been meant to hear them. He sighed yet again, still fiddling clumsily with the laces. When he spoke, his voice had a falsely cheery ring to it. "Enough of that, now. If we don't figure out this blasted dress and get Rosie ready soon, I fear it will be the worse for us. Elizabeth said that if I don't get you to the party on time, my life may be in grave danger."

Ryenne laughed weakly.

* * *

Despite Rosie's every attempt at thwarting their plan to bundle her into her best dress and coat, Ryenne and Quinn somehow managed to make it to the party intact and on time. It was a good thing, too, for Elizabeth had outdone herself yet again. Ryenne had to admit that it was less than surprising; though the Turner's did not hold social functions often, when Elizabeth saw sufficient occasion, she made the event memorable. Tonight would be no exception.

During her stay with them, Ryenne had never had much occasion to visit any part of the Turner's house that did not directly correspond with her needs. It had been easy to forget that Elizabeth was the daughter of the governor, and easy to only associate their house with the coziness of the sitting room and study. The truth of the matter was that their house was actually quite impressive, and more than capable of accommodating a large number of guests, which it was currently doing. Ryenne was certain she had met half the people in attendance only once or twice, and a handful not at all. Still, it was a merry gathering. People who had never before spared her a passing glance were now wishing her the happiest of birthdays and requesting dances, offering to refill her glass, complimenting her dress and choice of hairstyle. She could hardly breathe, for all the attention.

Thankfully, Quinn remained protectively at her elbow through it all, charming and pleasant where her awkward manners failed. They had barely spoken since their almost-tryst, what with Ryenne putting all of her effort into making sure that Rosie, who hated dressing up, stayed clean and presentable until they had been ready to make their way to the Turner's. In a way, she was glad that they hadn't had time to talk. Her feelings about that afternoon were muddled, and all she wanted to do was enjoy the evening without having to deal with any of the mess she was increasingly aware of being in. If Quinn felt differently about it, he had kept silent on the issue, putting perhaps too much of an effort into acting as if nothing were wrong. It was equal parts worrying and relieving.

He was not the only one behaving strangely. Though Elizabeth had greeted them at the door with a smile and warm embrace, she seemed to grow more agitated by the minute. Quinn had merely chocked it up to the pressures of playing hostess, but Ryenne was not so sure. Every time she tried to find out what might be the matter, Elizabeth waved off her concerns and sent her to meet someone new, and Ryenne began to suspect that Elizabeth was flat-out trying to avoid her.

Finally, she had had enough. Spotting Will lurking by himself near a long table sagging under the weight of pastries and assorted delicacies, Ryenne sidled towards him. He hardly looked pleased to see her coming his way, but he didn't make any attempt to move, which she took as a good sign. Ever since Jack had left, their relationship had been, to put it gently, strained. He had been furious with her the day she had walked out, and though she had tried more than once to explain it to him, their relationship had remained somewhat unstable. Still, if anyone would know what was going on, it would be him.

She busied herself selecting a few pieces of fancily-cut fruit. "Will, is something the matter with Elizabeth? She doesn't seem well. If it's about Rosie and John's fight earlier…"

He eyed her, his expression unreadable. "It's not that, Ryenne. She knows how children are."

Ryenne couldn't keep the frustration from her voice. "If that isn't it, then what is? She's the one who insisted on the party, but if it was going to be too much for her, she should have said something! I can't enjoy this if something's wrong, and she won't talk to me."

Will put down his glass of champagne rather more forcefully than was necessary, his eyes fierce. "You know, Ryenne, you might try thinking of someone other than yourself for a change. _You_ can't enjoy the party?" He had kept his voice low, but the couple strolling by arm-in-arm still looked at them askance. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, if Elizabeth had wanted to talk to you about this, or if she even could have, then _she would have?"_ Making a sound of disgust, he strode away, the crowd swallowing him up almost instantly. Shocked, Ryenne stayed behind, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

"What was that all about?" It was Quinn, the last person she wanted to see right now. He offered her a fresh flute of champagne, the concern on his face genuine. "I thought you and Will had patched things up years ago."

Ryenne snorted, incredulous that that could have been his impression of their relationship. "Not exactly. I didn't know it was this bad, though. I only asked him what was wrong with Elizabeth." She stared into her champagne, watching the bubbles rise and burst.

Quinn remained silent for a moment, then gently cupped her chin, raising her face so that their eyes could meet. "Ryenne, put this from your mind. When Elizabeth is ready to talk to you, she will. Until then…this is your night. You should be enjoying it." The strains of a lively contra dance suddenly filled the ballroom. Quinn's eyes lit up, and he quirked an eyebrow at her. He loved dancing, something Ryenne had always found surprising given his normally restrained demeanor. She, on the other hand…

Ryenne pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him, already knowing what she was going to do. "Do I _have_ to?"

He just grinned. "Yes."

* * *

The party was already in full swing when Jack arrived. Everywhere around him, the cream of colony society drank champagne and made merry, in honor of a woman who had once made her living from robbing them all blind. If not for the black mood he was in, he might have found it funny. As it was, he simply wanted to say his piece and be done.

He had spent all afternoon mulling the words over in his head. What was it he wanted? He knew the time for Ryenne and he was passed – Quinn had made that clear enough – but Rosie was still young. His assignment in Port Royale would not take him away for many months. He could not stand the thought of spending the time so near his daughter, yet unable to see her. He wanted to get to know her. He wanted her to know him. He wanted her to understand that he had not abandoned her, that if he had only known...

"Jack! I'm so delighted you came!" Though the embrace she gave him was warm enough, the expression on Elizabeth's face said clearly that she had been having second thoughts about having invited him to the party in the first place. He smiled ruefully.

"A generous lie, and I thank you for it." He waved off her protestation. "I don't intend to make any trouble, Elizabeth. I just want to speak with her, just once, and then I'll be on my way."

She nodded sadly, gesturing toward the mill of dancers that galloped about the center of the hall. "She's there."

For a moment, he could not pick her out from the crowd, lost in the riot of colorful frocks and faces as she was. And then, suddenly, she was there, clasping the hand of some hawk-like gentleman Jack had never seen before as she moved through the dance. The sight of her was like a physical blow. It took him a moment to remember how to breathe again.

She looked exactly the same, and yet, like another person entirely. Her face was flushed with laughter and tendrils of hair had come loose from her simple chignon, but her every movement radiated a grace and confidence he had not remembered. He watched, entranced, as the dance took her from partner to partner, spinning and bright-eyed at the excitement of it.

Then one partner in particular took his place with her just as she whirled, losing her balance slightly. He steadied her as she fell against him, laughing. It was Quinn, and way he looked down at her...

Jack turned away, his stomach tight. A server passed by with a raised plate of wineglasses. He snagged one and drained it, nearly choking – the wine was strong, an old, expensive vintage, not the kind meant for gulping - but he didn't care. He needed it, and thus fortified, he went to take his place among the dancers.

* * *

"Just one more, Ryenne. Come on!"

She laughed, trying to catch her breath. "I need to sit down. Do you have any idea how much this dress weighs?" She tried to free her hand from his grip, but he refused to let go.

"One more, then you can sit for as long as you like. Please." His eyes were so blue in the light of the candles, his look so earnest. Ryenne didn't have the heart to refuse.

The music started up again, a particularly lively tune that brought pleased smiles to the faces of the guests lining up for the dance, and drew a groan from Ryenne. "Last one, Quinn," she grated out, nonetheless unable to keep a smile from her face.

Once the dance started, though, Ryenne was glad she hadn't refused. She was quickly able to lose herself in the music and the steps, for once glad that dancing had been a part of her education, so long ago. The people moved around her in perfect harmony, and it felt like she was finally a part of them, no longer an outsider to be reviled and avoided.

And then it all came to a shuddering, halting stop. He was there, right in front of her, his hand held up to hers and a gentle smile on his face. Despite the decorated uniform, despite the proper hair and well-polished boots, she knew him immediately.

Jack.

"Happy birthday, Ryenne," he said, pitching his voice just over the music. Oh, how she had missed that voice. Her own, however, seemed to have deserted her.

She was supposed to be moving, she knew – a simple turn and on to the next partner – but her feet had somehow cemented themselves to the floor. Every light suddenly seemed too bright, every sound was thunderous. Her head was swam, the shock and champagne blurring the lines of her vision. Someone jostled her, uttering a good-natured curse, and abruptly she found her voice again.

"I need a drink."

When they reached the edge of the crowd and yet another glass of champagne was pressed into her hand, she started to come back to herself.

"...You're...you..."

Perhaps not totally back to herself.

Jack's face was solemn as he looked down at her, but there was a hint of desperation in his eyes. She wanted to leave the party, to go someplace with him where there was nobody else to see this, but she couldn't tear her eyes from his face, couldn't make her feet move. He cleared his throat hesitantly.

"I just need to know one thing, Ryenne, and then you'll never have to see me again, if you don't want to."

Her breathing suddenly felt labored. She knew what he was going to ask. Had she waited for him? Was there anything left between them?

God, _was_ there?

She had to stop him before he went any further, so she said the first thing that came to mind.

"How long are you going to be in Port Royale? Are you just here for repairs?" The words were already out before she realized that she didn't want to know the answer to that at all. Jack looked taken aback.

"My commission here is for ten months. Ryenne, I need to-"

"It must be so strange to be back, after all this time. And look at you, how many awards is that, anyway?" She laughed, feeling slightly drunk, and ran her fingers over the gold braiding of his coat. Suddenly he grabbed her hand, looking at it intently. She snatched it back.

"What?"

"Your hand." He looked confused, and strangely hopeful.

"What about my hand?"

His eyes, when he raised them to meet hers, were indecipherable. "You're not wearing your engagement ring."

"Engagement ring?" Now she was confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Please tell me you know."

"Know _what_? Jack, you're not making any sense at all. Why would I be wearing an engagement ring?" _I'm promised to you._ She didn't say the words; she wasn't sure they were true anymore. Her hand drifted, unthinking, to her throat, where the amber pendant had faithfully rested. Until yesterday.

He sighed and dropped her hand, looking everywhere but at her. When he spoke, it sounded more like a confession than an accusation. "I went to see Rosie today."

Ryenne closed her eyes. "Jack, I -"

"Will told me about her. I had no idea, Ryenne." The hurt in his voice cut at her. She had approved Will and Elizabeth's decision not to tell Jack, thinking that it would be easier for him, out there in the world, if he didn't know. "Quinn was there."

"Yes, he was watching the children."

There was a long silence, and then..."He told me that you were engaged. To him. And Rosie... she called him 'papa'. I thought..."

She was having trouble breathing again. It was suddenly so clear. The way Quinn had been acting when she got back, the way he spoke to her, touched her...he had seen Jack, had lied to Jack, and hadn't told her a thing. She didn't realize she had dropped her champagne glass until she heard it shatter on the floor. There was a roaring in her ears.

Quinn had lied to her.

"I'm not engaged, Jack." She could not keep the anger from coloring her tone.

She had trusted him, had felt guilty, even. And he had manipulated her.

"You're not engaged?"

"No, I am most certainly not." She was so angry her hands had begun to shake. She flinched when he caught them in his own, drawing her towards him. There was a blazing look in his eyes.

"Then, forgive me, but there's something I have to do."

Before she had a moment to realize what he was doing, he drew her into his arms and kissed her. It was like lightning coursing through her body, awakening her from a six-years-long sleep. There was another kind of roaring in her ears now.

She realized a minute too late that it was Quinn shouting.

He ripped her from Jack's arms with a violence she had not known he possessed, sending her crashing into the table behind her. Screams rang out across the room as he and Jack collapsed to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs and flying fists. It was Will who ran into the fray to separate them, narrowly avoiding a wild punch thrown by Quinn.

Quinn's lip was bleeding and his face was livid. Two men held him by the arms, keeping him from lunging at Jack. He hadn't stopped shouting the entire time. Only now Ryenne could make out his words.

"Bloody bastard, you've ruined everything, I was so close! I worked so hard, and you had to come back, didn't you, you just had to come back! I've been with them this whole time, and _you just had to come back_." His eyes were strangely bright, like he was holding back tears, but still he struggled against those restraining him.

Jack had regained his feet, and it seemed as if only massive self-control was keeping him from flying at the other man. When he spoke, however, his voice was level. "No, Quinn. I didn't ruin everything. You did, just now."

Quinn shook his head slowly, a look of incredulous horror creeping across his face. "No." His voice was barely above a whisper. "No." He turned to Ryenne, frantic. "Please, Ryenne. I was only trying to do what was best for us, for our family."

She was suddenly keenly aware of all the eyes fixed on her, the baited breath awaiting her response. A moment ago, she had been ready to throttle him. Now all she wanted to do was sit down and cry. The party had turned out to be a memorable one indeed.

Quinn was still staring at her with that wild look in his eye. She didn't want to look at him, wanted to look anywhere but at him. She forced her gaze to hold steady. "Why did you lie to me, Quinn? How long have you known that Jack was here?"

"Yesterday morning, when Elizabeth brought the boys over. She told me then."

Yesterday morning. But it hadn't been until yesterday afternoon that he had proposed, had tried to convince her that Jack would never come back. She had believed him then. And he had known...

Ryenne felt sick.

Quinn saw the realization on her face and shrugged off his captors, rushing to grab her by the shoulders before she could turn away. "You have to understand, Ryenne. I love you. It was the only way I could keep our family whole."

Now she could not look at him. Her eyes traveled over his shoulder to Jack, who looked even more worried than Quinn. If she had known he was there, only one day sooner... What would she have done? If Quinn had not deceived her, would she still have wanted to leave him, to bring an end to their little makeshift family? Did it matter, now that she knew?

There were tears in Quinn's eyes, tears streaming down his face. Her own was strangely dry.

"Why didn't you allow me the chance to decide for myself?"

"Because I knew what you would choose." His hands ran restlessly up and down her arms, and he closed his eyes when she flinched at his touch. "And I suppose that's my answer, isn't it? I could never compete with him." He released her, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "I just need to know: if he hadn't come back... Could you have loved me?"

Her voice was hollow, expressionless. "I would have tried."

He bowed his head. "I suppose that's it, then. Everything we've had, all of the good things..." He looked at Jack, who had made no move to interrupt them, and then back at her. His eyes were empty. "I wish you both well."

Then he threaded his way through the throng of people, and was gone.

Ryenne looked about her at the remnants of the party. Murmurs were already beginning in the crowd, all of these people that she didn't know already beginning to discuss and dissect her life. The knowledge was suffocating. Will and Elizabeth were standing to the side, their expressions a strange combination of horror and relief. The missing tears were just beginning to prick Ryenne's eyes when Jack's hand touched her arm. She looked at him, knowing that for the first time in so long, their desires were in perfect accord.

"Rosie can stay here tonight." Elizabeth's voice was soft. "It's no trouble."

"Thank you." Ryenne shot her a look of gratitude, of apology, before turning back to the man at her side. "I think I'd like to go home now."

She thought she would never see that wonderful smile again. Never before had she been so glad to be wrong.

"I think I'd like that too."

* * *

After six long years of waiting and hoping, Ryenne found herself amazed at the change three short weeks could bring. She had worried, those first few days with Jack, that one morning she would wake up and everything would be as it had been; she would find herself sharing a meager breakfast with her fatherless daughter and the man she wanted to, but did not, love. But things were not as they had been: she and Jack were together.

Despite all of the wounds they had inflicted on each other, somehow opening up their relationship had been as easy as opening up a well-loved book left on a shelf. Not that it hadn't been without its share of pain; they had had so much to talk about, so much to relearn about each other, that sometimes it still seemed like an impossible task. Jack was so different, now, the ways of the navy seemingly ingrained into his very being. It hadn't erased the pirate he had once been, but had tempered it, revealing a man of dignity and dedication.

Rosie had been confused about the situation at first, and then angry. Having the man she had thought of as her father ripped away and replaced with this solemn stranger...Ryenne hadn't envied her lot. But she was resilient, as all children were, and soon became fascinated by Jack – especially once he promised to show her _The Fortune_. The little girl seemed to already have saltwater in her blood, something that both worried and amused her mother.

Still, the child continued to ask after Quinn. The questions grew fewer and fewer by the day, but Ryenne longed for the time when they would cease altogether. Thinking about him was like probing a sore tooth: painful, but reflexive. After moving out of the flat they had shared, she had found herself afraid to venture to that part of Port Royale, worried that she might encounter him on the street. But it hadn't taken long for word to reach her that he had sold the apothecary and signed on with a merchant vessel as second mate. What he had lost, and the loss that Rosie now felt, pained her. After all, his motives had, for the most part, been good, though the deception had been a betrayal that she still could hardly comprehend. She hoped that he would find happiness, but it was a relief to have him gone.

Jack was not so forgiving, but he was always careful not to speak of it around Rosie.

The days began to fall into a rhythm of sorts. Jack rose early to attend meetings at the fort, and she and Rosie spent the hours of his absence adding warmth to the once-abandoned little house that was now becoming their home. A glass of wildflowers that Rosie had "rescued" from the overgrown back garden sat on the windowsill, bright against the faded lace curtains. Spices hung from the kitchen ceiling in bunches to dry. Ryenne was even learning how to bake, and though her attempts thus far had been more than abysmal, she was progressing. The life she had never thought she could imagine in the little house was coming to fruition all around her.

She stood at the window, watching John and Rosie romp around in the garden. They were engrossed in one of their games, the nature of which was unclear, but seemed to involve a lot of throwing of dirt clods. Whatever it was, it brought a smile to her face.

"She reminds me of you." The feel of Jack's arms around her had not lost its ability to make her shiver with happiness. She did not think it ever would.

"Funny, I was just about to say she reminds me of you." They stifled a laugh as a clod of dirt struck John in the chest and Rosie's crow of victory, only very slightly muffled by the window's glass, reached their ears.

"Either way, she's got quite a bit of pirate in her."

Ryenne smiled ruefully, fiddling with the amber pendant around her throat and gazing past her mischievous daughter to the sea beyond. Somewhere out there, the Black Pearl was sailing on without them. And for the first time in years, she did not miss it. She had found her home.


End file.
